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AURORA  FLOYD. 


gi  |il«wl. 


BY   M.    E.    BRADDOJS", 


AUTHOR    OF 


"LADY   AUDLEY'S   SECRET, 


^ 

V 


125795 

EI^-HMOND: 

WEST  k  john;ston,  145  main  street. 

1863. 


Evans  &  Cogswell,  Printers, 

No.  3  BKOAD  street,  CHARLESTOy,  S.  C. 


\ 


\ 


AURORA     FLO  Y  D. 


CHAPTER  T. 

HOW  A  KICII  nANKKK  MAllRIKO  AN  ACTUKSS. 

Faint  stroaks  of  crimson  gliinmor  licre  and 
tliei'd  amid  tlic,  ricli  darkni'ss  of  the  Kentish 
■woods.  Autiinin'.s  red  finivor  has  been  lij2;htly 
laid  upon  the  foliajze — s])arint>;ly,  as  tlie  artist 
pnts  the  lirijrliter  tints  into  his  picture;  but 
the  grandeur  of  an  Au;;nst  sunset  blazes  upon 
the  peaceful  landscape,  and  lip;hts  all  into 
jrlorv. 

The  cncirclin^j;  woo<ls  and  wide  lawn-like 
meadows,  the  still  ponds  of  limpid  -water,  the 
trim  hedges,  and  the  smooth  winding  roads; 
undulating  hill-tops,  melting  into  the  purple 
distance;  laboring- men's  cottages,  gleaming 
white  from  the  surrounding  foliage ;  solitary 
roadside  inns  with  brown  thatched  roofs  and 
moss-grown  stacks  of  lop-sided  chimneys; 
jiobie  mansions  hiding  behind  ancestral  oaks; 
tiny  Gothic  edifices;  Swiss  and  rustic  lodges; 
pillared  gates  surmounted  by  escutcheons 
hewn  in  stone,  and  festooned  with  green 
wreaths  of  clustering  ivy ;  viihige  churches 
and  ])rim  school-houses — every  object  in  the 
fair  English  ])rospect  is  steeped  in  a  luminous 
haze,  as  the  fwiliirht  shadoAvs  ste<i.l  slowly  up- 
ward from  tlie  dim  recesses  of  shady  avoo<1- 
land  and  winding  lane,  and  evtry  outline  of 
the  landscape  rlarkens  against  the  deepening 
crimson  of  the  sky. 

Upon  the  iiroad  f(i<;-a(Ie  of  a  mighty  red- 
brick mansion,  built  in  the  favorite  style  of 
the  early  (Jeorgian  era,  the  sinking  sun  lin- 
gers long,  making  gorgeous  illumination.  The 
long  rows  of  narrow  windows  are  all  aflame 
witli  the  red  light,  and  an  honest  homeward- 
tramping  villager  pauses  once  or  twice  in  the 
roadway  to  glance  across  the  smooth  width  of 
dewy  lawn  and  tranipiil  lake,  half  fearful  that 
there  must  be  .something  more  than  natin-al 
in  the  «:Iitt<T  of  those  window.s,  and  that 
maybe  Maistcr  Floyd's  house  is  afire. 

The  stately  red-built  mansion  belo  gs  to 
Maistcr  Floyd,  as  Im  is  called  in  the  honest 
paliiii  of  the  Kentish  rustics;  to  Archibald 
Martin  Floy<l,  of  the  great  banking-house  of 
Floyd,  Floyd,  and  Fh)yd,  Lombard  street, 
City.  *  ] 

The  Kentish  rustics  knew  very  little  of  this 


city   banking-house,   for    Archibald    Martin, 
the_ senior  ])artner,  has  long  retired  from  atiy 
active  share  in  the  business,  which  is  carried 
on    entirely    by   his    nephews,    Andrew    and 
Alexander  Floyd,  both  steady,  middle-age.d 
men,  with  families  ami  country-houses ;  both 
owing   their  fortune  to   the   rich  uncle,  who 
had  found   j)lact'.s  in  his  counting-hon.se  for 
tluMu   some    thirty  years    before, "when    they 
were,  tall,  raw-boned,  .^^andy-haired,  red-com- 
plexioned   Scottish   youths,  fresh  from    some 
uny)ronounceable  village  north  of  Aberdeen. 
The  young  gentlemen  signed  their  names 
M'Fioyd  when  they  first  entered  their  uncle's 
J  countiiig-hoHse;  but  they  very  soon  followed 
i  that  wise  lelativc's  example,  an.l  dropped  the 
formidjible  prefix.     *'  We  've  nae  need  to  tell 
these  Southeran  l)odies  that  we  're  Scotche," 
Alick  remarked  to  his  brother  as  he   wrote 
his  name  for  the  first  tiuK!  A.  Floyd,  all  short. 
The   Scottish   banking-house  had  thriven 
wonderfully  in  the  hosjutalile  English  capital. 
Unprecedented     success    had    waited    upon 
every    enterprise    undertaken    by   the    old- 
established    and    respected    firm  of    Floyd, 
Floyd,  and  Floyd.  It  had  been  Floyd,  Fioyd, 
and  Floyd  for  upward  of  a  CL-nfury;  for,  as 
one  member  of  the  house  dropped  ofi',  some 
greener  branch  shot  out  from  the  old  tree; 
and  there   hacl  never  yet   been  any  Jieed  to 
alter  the  treble  repetition  of  the  Avell-known 
name  upon  the  bniss  ])latcs  that  adorned  the 
swinging  mahogany    doors   of   the    banking- 
house.     To  this  brass  plate  Archibald  M:irfin 
Floyd  pointed  when,  some  thirty  years  before 
the  August  evening  of  which  I  write,  he  took 
\\\a    raw-bouMl    nephews    for  the   fir.st    time 
across  the  threshohl  of  his  house  of  bu.siue.ss. 
"See  there,  boy.s,'' he  said:  "look  at  the 
three  names  upon    that  brass  plate.      Your 
uncle  George  is  over  ilfty,  and  a  bachelor — 
that 's  the  first  name  ;  our  first  cousin,  Ste|)hen 
Floyd,  of  Calcutta,  is  going  to  sell  out  of  the 
business   before    long  —  that   's   the   second 
name;  the   third   i.s  mine,  and    I   'm    thirty- 
seven  years  of  age,  renu-mber.  boys,  and  not 
likely  to  make  a  fool  of  myself  by  marrying. 
Your  names  will  be  wanted  b}'  and  by  to  fill 
the  blanks;  see  that  you  keep  them  bright  in 
the  meantime  ;  fbi',  let  so  much  as  one  speck 


1?.,^7fi,^ 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


rest  upon  tlicm,  and  they  'II  never  be  fit  for 
that  brass  plate." 

Perliaps  the  merged  Scottish  j'ou'ths  took 
this  lesson  to  lieart,  or  perhaps  honesty  was  a 
natural  and  inborn  virtue  in  the  house  of 
Floyd,  Be  it  as  it  might,  neither  Alick  nor 
Andrew  disgraeed  their  ancestry ;  and  when 
Stephen  Floyd,  the  East- Indian  merchant, 
sold  out,  and  Uncle  George  grew  tired  of 
business,  and  took  to  building,  as  an  elderly, 
bachelor-like  hol)by,  the  young  men  stej^ped 
into  their  relatives'  shoes,  and  took  the  con- 
duct of  the  business  upon  their  broad  North- 
ern shoulders.  Upon  one  point  only  Archi- 
bald ]\Iartin  Floyd  had  misled  liis  nephews, 
and  that  point  regarded  himself  Ten  years 
after  his  address  to  the  young  men,  at  the  sober 
age  of  seven-and-forty,  the  banker  not  only 
made  a  fool  of  himself  by  man-ying,  but,  if 
indeed  such  things  are  foolish,  sank  still 
fjirther  from  tlie  proud  elevation  of  worldly 
wisdom  by  falling  d(!spcrately  in  love  with  a 
beautiful  but  penniless  woman,  whom  he 
brought  Iiome  with  him  after  a  business  tour 
through  the  manuf;icturlng  districts,  and  with 
but  little  cei-emony  inti'oduced  to  his  relations 
and  the  county  families  round  his  Kentish 
estate  as  his  newly-wedded  wife. 

The  whole  alfair  was  so  sudden,  that  these 
vei-y  county  families  had  scarcely  recovered 
from  their  surprise  at  reading  a  certain  para- 
graph in  the  left-hand  column  of  the  Times, 
announcing  the  marriage  of  ''Archibald  Mar- 
tin Floyd,  Banker,  of  Lombard  street  aud 
Felden  Woods,  to  Eliza,  only  surviving 
daughter  of  Captain  Prodder,"  wjien  the 
bridegroom's  travelling  carriage  daslied  past 
the  Gothic  lodge  at  the  gates,  along  the 
avenue  and  under  the  great  stone  portico  at 
the  side  of  the  house,  and  Eliza  Floyd  en- 
tered the  bankei"'s  mansion,  nodding  good- 
naturedly  to  the  bewildered  servants,  mar- 
shalled into  the  hall  to  receive  their  new 
mistress. 

The  banker's  wife  was  a  tall  young  woman 
of  about  thirty,  with  a  dark  complexion,  and 
great  ilashing  black  eyes  that  lit  uj)  a  face 
which  might  otherwise  have  been  un notice- 
able into  the  splendor  of  absolute  beauty. 

Let  the  reader  recall  one  of  those  faces 
■whose  sole  loveliness  lies  in  the  glorious  light 
of  a  pair  of  magnificent  eyes,  and  remember 
how  far  they  surpass  all  othej-s  in  their  [)ower 
of  fascination.  The  same  amount  of  beauty 
frittered  away  upon  a  well-shaped  nose,  rosy, 
pouting  lij)s,  symmetrical  forehead,  an(i  deli- 
cate complexion,  would' make  an  ordinarily 
lovely  woman  ;  but  concentrated  in  one  nu- 
cleus, in  the  wondrous  lustre  of  tlie  eyes,  it 
makes  a  divinity,  a  Circe.  You  may  meet 
the  first  any  day  of  your  life ;  the  second, 
once  in  a  lifetime. 

Mr.  Floyd  introdu(;ed  his  wife  to  tlie  neigh- 
boring gentry  at  a  dinner-party,  which  he 
gave  soon  after  the  lady's  arrival  at  Felden 


Woods,  as  Ills  country  seat  was  called ;  and 
this  ceremony  very  briefly  despatched,  he  said 
no  more  about  his  choice  either  to  his  neigh- 
bors or  his  relations,  who  would  have  been 
very  glad  to  hear  how  this  unlooked-for  mar- 
riage had  come  about,  and  who  hinted  the  same 
to  the  happy  bridegroom,  but  without  effect. 

Of  course  this  very  reticence  on  the  part  of. 
Archibald  Floyd  himself  only  set  the  thousand 
tongues  of  rumor  more  busily  to  work.  Round 
Beckenham  and  West  AVickham,  near  which 
villages  Felden  Woods  was  situated,  there  was 
scarcely  any  one  debased  and  degraded  sta- 
tion of  life  from  which  Mrs.  Floyd  was  not 
reported  to  have  sprung.  She  was  a  factory- 
girl,  and  the  silly  old  banker  had  seen  her  in 
the  streets  of  Manchester,  with  a  colored 
handkerchief  on  her  head,  a  coral  necklace 
round  her  throat,  and  shoeless  and  stocking- 
less  feet  tramping  in  the  mud :  he  had  seen 
her  thus,  and  had  tallen  incontinently  in  love 
with  her,  and  offered  to  marry  her  there  and 
then.  She  was  an  actress,  and  he  had  seen 
her  on  the  Manchester  stage  ;  nay,  lower  still, 
she  was  some  poor  performer,  decked  in  dirty 
white  muslin,  red  cotton  velvet,  and  spangles, 
who  acted  in  a  canvas  booth,  witli  a  pitiful  set 
of  wandering  vagabonds  and  a  learned  pig. 
Sometimes  th«y  said  she  was  an  equestrian, 
and  it  was  at  Astlcy's,  and  not  in  the  manu- 
facturing districts,  that  the  banker  had  first 
seen  her;  nay,  some  there  were  ready  to 
swear  that  they  themselves  had  beheld  her 
leaping  through  gilded  hoops,  and  dancing  the 
cachuca  upon  six  barebacked  steeds  in  that 
sawdust-strewn  arena.  There  were  whisper- 
ed rumors  that  went  even  farther  tlian  these 
—  rumoi's  which  I  dare  not  even  set  down 
liere,  for  the  busy  tongues  that  dealt  so  mer- 
cilessly with  the  name  and  fame  of  Eliza 
Floyd  were  not  unbarbed  by  malice.  It  may 
be  that  .some  of  the  ladies  had  personal  rea- 
sons for  their  spite  against  the  bride,  and  that 
many  a  waning  beauty,  in  those  pleasant 
Kentish  mansions,  had  speculated  upon  the 
banker's  income,  and  the  advantages  attend- 
ant upon  a  union  with  the  owner  of  Felden 
Woods. 

The  daring,  disreputable  creatiire,  with  not 
even  beauty  to  recommend  her — for  tlie  Kent- 
ish damsels  scrupulously  ignored  Eliza's  won- 
derful eyes,  and  were  sternly  critical  with  her 
low  forehead,  doubtful  nose,  and  rather  wide 
mouth  —  the  artful,  designing  minx,  who,  at 
the  mature  age  of  nine-and-twenty,  with  her 
hair  growing  nearly  down  to  her  eyebrows, 
had  contnved  to  secure  to  herself  the  hand 
and  tbrtune  of  tlie  richest  man  in  Kent — the- 
man  who  liad  been  hitherto  so  impregnable  to 
every  assault  from  bright  eyes  and  rosy  lips, 
that  the  most  indefatigable  of  manoeuvring 
mothers  had  given  him  up  in  despair,  and 
ceased  to  make  visionary  and  Alnaschar-Hke 
arrangements  of  the  furniture  in  Mr.  Floyd's 
great  red-brick  palace. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


The  female  portion  of  the  community  won- 
dered indignantly  at  the  supincness  of  the 
two  Scotch  nephews,  and  the  old  hachelor 
brother,  fTCorgc.  Floyd.  "Why  did  not  these 
people  show  a  little  spirit  —  institute  a  com- 
mission of  lunacy,  and  shut  their  crazy  rela- 
tive in  a  mad-house  ?     lie  deserved  it. 

The  ruined  nnhle.^se  of  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain,  the  faded  duchesses  and  wornout 
vidames,  could  not  have  abu.sed  a  wealthy  ! 
Bonapai'tist  Avith  more  vigorous  rancor  tlian 
these  people  employed  in  their  ceaseless  bab- 
ble about  the  banker's  wife.  Whatever  she 
did  was  a  new  subject  for  criticism  ;  even  at 
that  first  dinner-party,  though  Eliza  had  no 
more  ventured  to  interfere  with  the  arrange- 
ments of  the  man-cook  and  housekeeper  than 
if  she  had  been  a  visitor  at  Buckingham 
Palace,  the  angry  guests  found  that  every- 
thing had  degenerated  since  "  that  woman  " 
had  entered  the  house.  They  hated  the 
successful  adventuress  —  hated  her  for  her 
beautiful  eyes  aiul  her  gorgeous  jewels,  the 
extravagant  gifts  of  an  adoring  husband — 
hated  her  for  her  stately  figure  and  graceful 
movements,  which  ne\'cr  betrayed  the  i-umor- 
ed  obscurity  of  her  origin — hated  her,  above 
all,  for  her  insolence  in  not  appearing  in  the 
least  afraid  of  the  lofty  membci-s  of  that  new 
circle  in  which  she  found  herself 

If  she  had  meekly  eaten  the  ample  dish  of 
humble-pie  wliich  these  county  families  were 
prepared  to  set  before  her — if  she  had  licked 
the  dust  from  their  aristocratic  shoes,  courted 
their  patronage,  and  submitted  to  be  "  taken 
up"  by  them  —  they  yiight,  perhaps,  in  time, 
have  forgiven  her.  But  she  did  none  of  this. 
If  they  called  upon  her,  well  and  good;  she 
was  frankly  and  cheerfully  glad  to  see  them. 
They  might  find  her  in  her  gardening-gloves, 
with  rumpled  hair  and  a  watering-pot  in  her 
hands,  busy  among  her  conservatories;  and 
she  would  receive  them  as  serenely  as  if  she 
had  been  born  in  a  palace,  and  used  to  hom- 
age from  her  very  babyhood.  Let  them  be  as 
frigidly  polite  as  they  pleased,  she  was  always 
easy,  candid,  gay,  and  good-natured.  She 
would  rattle  away  about  her  "dear  old  Archy," 
as  she  presumed  to  call  her  benefactor  and 
husband  ;  or  she  would  show  her  guests  some 
new  picture  he  had  bought,  and  would  dare — 
the  impudent,  ignorant,  pretentious  creature  ! 
—  to  talk  about  Art,  as  if  all  the  high-sound- 
ing jargon  with  which  they  tried  to  crusii  her 
was  as  familiar  to  her  as  to  a  Royal  Acade- 
mician. When  etiquette  demanded  her  re- 
turning thes<'  stately  visits,  she  would  drive 
boldly  up  to  her  neighbors'  doors  in  a  tiny 
basket  carriage,  drawn  by  one  rough  pony  ;  for 
it  was  an  affectation  of  this  designing  woman 
to  affect  simplirity  in  her  tastes,  atid  to  abjiire 
all  display.  She  would  take  all  the  grandeur 
she  met  with  as  a  thing  "of  course,  and  chat- 
ter and  laugh,  with  her  flaunting  theatrical 
animation,  much  to  the  admiration  of  mis- 


guided young  men,  who  could  not  see  the 
high-bn-d  charms  of  her  detractors,  but  who 
were  never  tired  of  talking  of  Mrs.  Floyd's 
jolly  manners  and  glorious  eyes. 

I  wonder  whether  poor  ICliza  Floyd  knew 
all  or  half  the  cruel  things  that  were  said  of 
her.  I  shrewdly  suspect  that  she  contrived 
somehow  or  other  to  hear  them  all,  and  that 
she  rather  enjoyed  the  fun.  She  had  been 
used  to  a  life  of  excitement,  and  Felden  Woods 
might  have  .seemed  dull  to  her  but  for  these 
ever -fresh  scandals.  She  took  a  malicious 
delight  in  tlie  discomfiture  of  her  enemie.<. 

''  How  badly  they  must  have  wanted  you 
for  a  husband's  Archy,"  she  said,  "  when  they 
hate  me  so  ferociously.  Poor,  portionless  old 
maids,  to  think  I  should  snatch  their  prey  from 
them  !  I  know  they  think  it  a  hard  thiiig  that 
the}-  can't  have  me  hung  for  marrying  a  rich 
man." 

But   the    banker  was  so  deeply   wounded 

when   his  adored  wife  repeated    to   him  the 

gossip  which  she  had  heard  from  her  maid, 

who  was  a  stanch  adherent  to  a  kind,  easy 

mistres.s,  that  Eliza  ever  after  withheld  thesa 

reports   from    him.      They   amused    her,   but 

j  they  stung  him  to  the  quick.     Proud  and  sen- 

!  sitive,  like  almost  all  very  honest  and  consci- 

I  entions  men,  he  could  not  endure  that  any 

j  creature  should  dare  to  befoul  the  name  of  the 

j  woman  he  loved  so  tenderly.     What  was  the 

obscurity  from   which   he   had   taken   her  to 

j  him  ?     Is  a  star  less  bright  because  it  shines 

I  on  a  gutter  as  well  as  upon  the  purple  bosom 

j  of  the  midnight  sea?     Is  a  virtuous  and  gen- 

!  erous-hearted  woman  less  worthy  becauseyou 

I  find  her  making  a  scanty  living  out  of  the 

!  only  industry  s^ie   can   exercise,   and  acting 

!  .Juliet  to  an  audience  of  factory  hands,  who 

I  gave  threepence  apiece   for  the  privilege  of 

admiring  and  applauding  her? 

I      Yes,  the  murder  mu.st  out;   the  malicious 

j  were  not  altogether  wrong  in  their  conjeet- 

!  ures :   Eliza  Prodder  was  an  actress ;   and  it 

I  was  on  the  dirty  boards  of  a  second-rate  thea- 

I  tre  in  Lancashire   that  the  wealthy  banker 

I  had  first  beheld  her.     Archibald  Floyd  nour- 

I  ished  a  traditional,  passive,  but  sincere  admi- 

I  ration  for  the  British  Drama.     Yes,  the  Bnflsh 

j  Drama;  for  he  had  lived  in  a  day  when  the 

I  drama  was  British,  and  when   Gcorg/>  JJarn- 

\  tvell  and  Jane  S/iore  were  among  the  favorite 

I  works  of  art  of  a  play-goiug  public.     How  sad 

,  that  we  should  have  dcgenerateil  since  those 

I  classic  days,  and  that  the  graceful  story  of 

I  Milwood  and  her  apprenticc-adnn'rer  is  now 

I  .so  rarely  set  before  us!     Imbued,  therefore, 

I  with   the  solemnity  of  Shake.-pearc   and  the 

-  drama,  Mr.  Floyd,  stopjiing  for  a  night  at  this 

second-rate  Lancashire  town,  dropped  into 

^  the  dusty  boxes  of  the  theatre  to  witness  the 

performance  of  Romrn  and  Juliet — the  heiress 

'  of  the   Capulets  being  represented  by  Mi.ss 

I  Eliza  Percival,  alias  Prodder. 

1  do  not  believe  that  Miss  Percival  was  a 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


{rood  actress,  or  that  she  would  ever  become  j 
distinguished  in  her  profession ;  but  she  liad  ' 
a  deep,  melodious  7oiee,  which  rolled  out  the  j 
words  of  her  author  in  a  certain  rich  though  [ 
rather  monotonous  music,  pleasant  to  hear  ;| 
and  upon  the  stage  she  was  very  beautiful  to  | 
look  at,  for  lier  face  lighted  up  the  little  thea-  j 
tre  better  than  all  the  gas  that  the  manager 
grudged  to  his  scanty  audiences.  | 

It   was  not  the   fashion  in   those  days  to  j 
make  ".sensation"  dramas  of  Shakespeare's  | 
plays.     There  was  no  Hamlet  with  the  cele-  l 
brated  water-scene,  and   the   Danish   prince  i 
taking  a  "header"  to  save  poor  wcak-witted  j 
Ophelia.     In  the  little  Lancashire  theatre  it 
would  have  been  thought  a  terril)lc  sin  against  t 
all  canons  of  dramatic  art  had   Othello  or  his  1 
Ancient  attempted  to  sit  down  during  any  j 
part  of  the  solemn  performance.     The  hoj)e 
of  Denmark   was  no  long -robed  Norseman: 
with  flowing  flaxen  hair,  but  an  individual  { 
Avlio  wore  a  short,  rusty  black  cotton  velvet  j 
garment,   shaped    like   a   child's    frock    and 
trimmed  with  bugles,  which  dropped  off  and 
were  trodden  upon  at  intervals   throughout 
the   performance.      The  simple  actors  held, 
that  tragedy,  to  be  tragedy,  must  be  utterly  ] 
unlike  anything  that  ever  happened  beneath  j 
the  sun.     And  Eliza  Prodder  patiently  trod  \ 
the  old  and  beaten  track,  far  too  good-nat-  } 
ured,  light-hearted,  and  easy-going  a  creature  | 
to  attempt  any  foolish  interference  with  the  j 
crookedness  of  the  times,  which  she  was  not  j 
born  to  set  right. 

AVhat  can  I  say,  then,  about  her  perform- 
ance of  the  impassioned  Italian  girl  V  She 
wore  white  satin  and  spangles,  the  spangles 
sewn  upon  the  dirty  hem  of  her  dress,  in  the 
firm  belief,  common  to  all  provincial  actresses, 
that  spangles  are  an  antidote  to  dirt.  She 
was  laughing  and  talking  in  the  whitewashed 
little  green-room  the  very  minute  before  she 
ran  on  to  the  stage  to  wail  for  her  murdered 
kinsman  and  her  banished  lover.  They  tell 
us  that  Macready  began  to  be  Richelieu  at 
three  o'clock  in  the  ai'ternoon,  and  that  it  was 
dangerous  to  approach  or  to  speak  to  him 
between  that  hour  and  the  close  ol  the  per- 
ibrmance.  So  dangerous,  indeed,  that  surely 
none  but  the  dai'ing  and  misguided  gentle- 
man who  once  met  the  great  tragedian  in  a 
dark  passage,  and  gave  him  '•  (iood-morrow, 
'  Mac,' "  would  have  had  the  temerity  to  at- 
tempt it.  But  Miss  Percival  did  not  take  her 
profession  very  deeply  to  heart;  the  J^anca- 
shire  salaries  barely  paid  for  the  physical 
wear  and  tear  of  early  rehearsals  and  long 
performances;  how,  then,  for  that  snental  ex- 
haustion of  the  true  artist  who  lives  in  the 
character  he  represents  ? 

The  easy-going  comediaTis  with  whom  Eliza 
acted  made  friendly  renun-ks  to  each  other  on 
their  private  affairs  in  the  intervals  of  the 
most  vengeful  discourse ;  speculated  upon  the 
amount  of  money  in  the  house  in  audible  un- 


dertones during  the  pauses  of  the  scene ;  and 
when  Hamlet  wanted  Horatio  down  at  the 
foot-lights  to  ask  him  if  he  "  marked  that,"  it 
was  likely  enough  that  the  prince's  confidant 
was  up  the  stage  telling  Polonius  of  the  shame- 
ful way  in  which  his  landlady  stole  the  tea  and 
sugar. 

It  was  not,  therefore,  IMiss  Percival's  acting 
that  fascinated  the  banker.  Archibald  Floyd 
knew  that  she  was  as  bad  an  actress  as  ever 
played  the  leading  tragedy  and  comedy  for 
five-and-twenty  shillings  a  week.  He  had 
seen  Miss  O'Neil  in  that  very  character,  and 
it  moved  him  to  a  pitying  smile  as  the  factory 
hands  a])plauded  poor  Eliza's  poison -scene. 
But,  lor  all  this,  he  fell  in  love  with  her.  It 
was  a  repetition  of  the  old  story.  It  was  Ai-- 
thur  Pendennis  at  the  little  Chatteris  Theatre 
bewitched  and  bewildered  by  Lliss  Fotherin- 
gay  all  over  again  —  only  that  instead  of  a 
feeble,  impressionaljle  boy,  it  was  a  sober, 
steady-going  business-man  of  seven-and-fbrty, 
who  had  never  felt  one  thrill  of  emotion  in 
looking  on  a  woman's  face  until  that  night  — 
until  that  night  —  and  from  that  night  to  him 
the  world  only  held  one  being,  and  life  only 
had  one  object.  lie  went  the  ne.xt  evening, 
and  the  next,  and  then  contrived  to  scrape 
acquaintance  with  some  of  the  actors  at  a  tav- 
ern next  the  theatre.  They  sponged  upon 
liim  cruelly,  these  seedy  comedians,  and  al- 
lowed him  to  pay  lor  unlimited  glasses  of 
brandy  and  water,  and  flattered  and  cajoled 
him,  and  plucked  out  the  heart  of  his  myste- 
ry; and  then  went  back  to  Eliza  Percival, 
and  told  her  that  she  had  dropped  into  a  good 
thing,  for  that  an  old  chap  with  no  end  of 
money  had  ftxllen  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
with  her,  and  that  if  she  played  her  cards 
well,  he  would  marry  her  to-morrow.  They 
pointed  him  out  to  her  through  a  hole  in  the 
green  curtain,  sitting  £ilmost  alone  in  the  shab- 
by boxes,  waiting  for  the  play  to  begin  and 
her  black  eyes  to  shine  upon  him  once  more. 

Eliza  laughed  at  her  conquest ;  it  was  only 
one  among  many  such,  which  had  all  ended 
alike — leading  to  nothing  better  than  the  pur- 
chase of  a  box  on  her  benefit  night,  or  a  bou- 
quet left  for  her  at  the  stage-door.  She  did 
not  know  the  power  of 'first  love  upon  a  man 
of  seven-and-forty.  Before  the  week  was  out, 
Archibald  Floyd  had  made  her  a  solemn  offer 
of  his  hand  and  fortune. 

He  had  heai'd  a  great  deal  about  her  from 
her  fellow-performerg,  and  had  heard  nothing 
but  good.  Temptations  resisted ;  diamond 
bracelets  indignantly  declined;  graceful  acts 
of  gentltt  womanly  charity  done  in  secret;  in- 
dependence preserved  through  all  poverty 
and  trial  —  they  told  him  a  hundrctd  stories  of 
her  goodness,  that  brought  the  blood  to  his 
face  with  proud  and  generous  emotion.  And 
slie  herself  told  him  the  sim})le  history  of  her 
life — told  him  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
merchant-captain   called   Prodder;   that  she 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


was  born  at  Liverpool ;  that  she  remembered 
little  of  her  father,  who  was  almost  always  at 
sea ;  nor  of  a  brother,  three  years  older  than 
herself,  who  quarrelled  with  his  father,  the 
merchant -faptain,  and  ran  away,  and  was 
never  heard-  of  ajjain  ;  nor  of  her  mother,  wlio 
died  when  she,  Eliza,  was  ten  years  old. 
Tiie  rest  was  told  in  a  few  words.  She  was 
taken  into  the  family  of  an  aunt  Avho  kept  a 
grocer's  shop  in  Miss  Prodder's  native  town. 
She  learned  artificial  flower-making,  and  did 
not  take  to  the  business.  She  went  often  to 
the  Liverpool  theatres,  and  thought  she  would 
like  to  go  upon  the  stage.  Being  a  daring 
and  energetic  }'oung  person,  she  left  her  aunt's 
house  one  day,  walked  straight  to  the  stage- 
manager  of  one  of  the  minor  theatres,  and 
a^ed  him  to  let  her  appear  as  Lady  Macbeth. 
The  man  laughed  at  her,  but  told  her  that,  in 
oonsideration  of  lier  fine  figure  and  black  eyes, 
he  would  give  her  fifteen  shillings  a  week  to 
"  walk  on,"  as  he  technically  called  the  busi- 
ness of  the  ladies  wlio  wander  on  to  the  stage, 
sometimes  dressed  as  villagers,  sometimes  in 
court  costume  of  calico  trmimed  with  gold, 
and  stare  vaguely  at  whatever  may  be  taking 
]>lace  in  the  scene.  From  "  walking  on  " 
Eliza  came  to  play  minor  parts,  indignantly 
refused  by  her  superiors ;  from  these  she 
plunged  ambitiously  into  the  tragic  lead,  and 
thus,  for  nine  years,  pursued  the  even  tenor  of 
her  way,  until,  close  upon  her  nine-and-twen- 
tieth  birthday.  Fate  threw  the  wealthy  bank- 
er across  her  })athway,  and  in  the  parish 
church  of  a  small  town  in  the  Potteries  the 
black-eyed  actress  exchanged  the  name  of 
Pi-odder  for  that  of  F'loyd.  " 

She  had  accepted  the  rich  man  partly  be- 
cause, moved  by  a  sentiment  of  gratitude  for 
the  generous  ardor  of  his  affection,  she  was 
inclined  to  like  him  better  than  any  one  else 
she  knew,  and  partly  in  accordanee  with  the 
advice  of  her  theatrical  friends,  who  told  her, 
with  more  candor  than  elegance,  that  she 
would  be  a  jolly  fool  to  let  such  a  chance  es- 
cape her ;  but  at  the  time  she  gave  her  hand 
to  Archibald  Martin  Floyd  she  had  no  idea 
whatever  of  the  magnitude  of  the  fortune  he 
had  invited  her  to  "share.  He  told  her  that 
he  was  a  banker,  and  her  active  mind  imme- 
diately evoked  the  image  of  the  only  banker's 
wife  she  had  ever  known — a  portly  lady,  who 
wore  silk  gowns,  lived  in  a  square,  stuccoed 
house  with  green  blinds,  kept  a  cook  and 
house-maid,  and  took  three  box  tickets  tor  ^liss 
Percival's  benefit. 

When,  therefore,  the  doting  hiuband  loaded 
his  handsome  bride  with  diamond  bracelets 
and  necklace*!,  and  with  silks  ami  brocades 
that  were  stiiV  and  unmanageable  tVom  their 
very  richness  —  when  he  carried  her  straight 
from  the  Potteries  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and 
lodged  her  in  spacious  apartments  at  the  best 
hotel  in  Ryde,  and  Hung  his  money  here  and 
there  as  if  he  had  carried  the  lamp  of  Aladdin 


in  his  coat-pocket  —  Eliza  remonstrated  with 
her  new  master,  fearing  that  his  love  had 
driven  him  mad,  and  that  this  alarming  ex- 
travagance was  the  first  outburst  of  insanity. 

It  seemed  a  repetition  of  the  dear  old  Bur- 
leigh story  when  Archibald  Floyd  took  his 
wife  into  the  long  picture-gallery  at  Felden 
Woods.  She  clasped  her  liands  for  frank, 
womanly  joy,  as  she  looked  at  the  magnifi- 
cence about  her.  She  compared  herself  to 
the  humble  bride  of  the  marquis,  and  fell  on 
her  knees,  and  did  theatrical  homage  to  her 
lord.  "  Oh,  Archy,"  she  said,  "it  is  all  too 
good  for  me.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  die  of  my 
grandeur,  as  the  poor  girl  pined  away  at 
Burleigh  House." 

In  the  full  maturity  of  womanly  loveliness, 
rich  in  healtJi,  freshness,  and  high  spirits,  how 
little  could  Eliza  dream  that  she  would  hold 
even  a  briefer  lease  of  these  costly  splendors 
than  the  Bride  of  Burleigh  had  done  before 
her. 

Now  the  reader,  being  acquainted  with 
Eliza's  antecedents,  may  perhaps  find  in  them 
some  clew  to  the  insolent  ease  and  well-bred 
audacity  with  which  Mrs.  Floyd  treated  the 
second-rate  county  families  who  were  bent 
upon  putting  her  to  confusion.  She  was  an 
actress;  for  nine  years  she  had  lived  in  that 
ideal  world  in  which  dukes  and  marquises 
arc  as  common  as  butchers  and  bakers  in 
work-a-day  life,  in  which,  indeed,  a  noble- 
man is  generally  a  poor,  mean-spirited  indi- 
vidual, who  gets  the  worst  of  it  on  e very- 
hand,  and  is  contemptuously  entreated  by  the 
audience  on  account  of  his  rank.  How  should 
she  be  abashed  on  entering  the  drawing-rooms 
of  these  Kentish  mansions,  when  for  nine 
years  she  had  walked  nightly  on  to  a  stage  to 
be  the  focus  for  every  eye,  and  to  entertain 
her  guests  the  evening  through  ?  Was  it  . 
likely  she  was  to  be  overawed  by  the  Len- 
fields,  who  were  coach-builders  in  Park  Lane, 
or  the  Miss  Manderlys,  whose  father  had 
made  his  money  by  a  patent  for  starch  —  she, 
who  had  received  King  Duncan  at  the  gates 
of  her  castle,  and  had  sat  on  her  throne  dis- 
pensing condescending  hospitality  to  the  ob- 
sequious Thanes  at  Dunsinane  ?  So,  do  what 
they  would,  tkey  were  unable  to  subdue  this 
base  intruder  ;  while,  to  add  to  their  mortifi- 
{;ation,  it  every  day  became  more  obvious 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Floyd  made  one  of  the 
hapjiiest  couples  who  had  ever  worn  the  bonds 
of  matrimony,  and  changed  them  into  gar- 
lands of  roses.  If  this  were  a  very  romantic 
story,  it  woidd  be  perhaps  only  proper  for 
Eliza  Floyd  to  pine  in  her  gilded  bower,  and 
misapply  her  energies  in  weeping  for  some 
abandoned  lover,  deserted  in  an  evil  hour  of 
ambitious  madness.  But  as  my  story  is  a 
true  one  —  not  only  true  in  a  general  sense, 
but  strictly  true  tis  to  the  leading  tacts  which 
T  am  about  to  relat© — and  as  I  could  point 
out,  in  a  certain  county,  far  northward  of  the 


8 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


lovely  Kentish  Avoods,  the  very  house  in  which 
the  events  I  shall  describe  took  place,  I  am 
bound  also  to  be  truthful  here,  and  to  set 
down  as  a  fact  that  the  love  M^hich  Eliza 
Floyd,  bore  for  her  husband  was  as  pure  and 
sincere  an  affection  as  ever  man  need  hope 
to  win  from  the  generous  heart  of  a  good 
woman.  Wiiat  share  gratitude  may  have 
had  in  that  love  I  can  not  tell.  If  she  lived 
in  a  handsome  house,  and  was  waited  on  by 
attentive  and  deferential  servants ;  if  she  ate 
of  delicate  dishes,  and  drank  costly  wines; 
if  she  wore  rich  dresses  and  splendid  jewels, 
and  lolled  on  the  downy  cushions  of  a  car- 
riage, drawn  by  high -mettled  horses,  and 
driven  by  a  coachman  with  powdered  hair ; 
if,  wherever  she  went,  all  outward  semblance 
of  homage  was  paid  to  her ;  if  she  had  but  to 
utter  a  Avish,  and,  swift  as  the  stroke  of  some 
enchanter's  wand,  that  wish  was  gratified, 
she  knew  that  she  owed  all  to  her  husband, 
Archibald  Floyd ;  and  it  may  be  that  she 
grew,  not  unnaturally,  to  associate  him  with 
every  advantage  she  enjoyed,  and  to  love 
him  for  the  sake  of  these  things.  Such  a 
love  as  this  may  appear  a  low  and  despicable 
affection  when  compared  to  the  noble  senti- 
ment entertained  by  the  Nancys  of  modern 
romance  for  the  Bill  Sykeses  of  their  choice  ; 
and  no  doubt  Eliza  Floyd  ought  to  have  felt 
a  sovereign  contempt  for  the  man  who  watch- 
ed her  every  whim,  who  gratified  her  every 
caprice,  and  who  loved  and  honored  her  as 
much,  ci-devant  provincial  actress  as  she  was, 
as  he  could  have  done  had  she  descended  the 
steps  of  the  loftiest  throne  in  Christendom  to 
give  him  her  hand. 

She  was  grateful  to  him,  she  loved  him,  she 
made  him  perfectly  happy  —  so  happy  that 
the  strong-hearted  Scotchman  was  sometimes 
almost  panic  stricken  at  the  contemplation 
of  his  own  prosperity,  and  would  fall  down 
on  his  knees  and  pray  that  this  blessing  might 
not  be  taken  from  him ;  that,  if  it  pleased 
Providence  to  afllict  him,  he  might  be  stripped 
of  every  shilling  of  his  wealth,  and  left  pen- 
niless, to  begin  the  world  anew  —  but  with 
her.  Alas !  it  was  this  blessing,  of  all  others, 
that  he  was  to  lose. 

For  a  year  Eliza  and  her  husband  lived 
this  happy  life  at  Felden  Woods.  He  wished 
to  take  her  on  the  Continent,  or  to  London 
for  the  season  ;  but  she  could  not  bear  to 
leave  her  lovely  Kentish  home.  She  was 
happier  than  the  day  was  long  among  her 
gardens,  and  pineries,  and  graperies,  her 
dogs  and  horses,  and  her  poor.  To  these 
last  she  seemed  an  angel,  descended  from 
the  skies  to  comfort  them.  There  were  cot- 
tages from  which  the  prim  daughters  of  the 
second-rate  county  families  fled,  tract  in 
hand,  discomfited  and  abashed  by  the  black 
looks  of  the  half-starved  inmates,  but  upon 
whose  doorways  the  sHadow  of  Mrs.  Floyd 
was  as  the  shadow  of  a  priest  in  a  Catholic 


country  —  always  sacred,  yet  ever  welcome 
and  familiar.  She  had  the  trick  of  making 
these  people  like  her  before  she  set  tb  work 
to  reform  their  evil  habits.  At  an  early 
stage  of  her  acquaintance  with  them,  she 
was  as  blind  to  the  dirt  and  disorder  of  their 
cottages  as  she  would  have  been  to  a  shabby 
carpet  in  the  drawing-room  of  a  poor  duchess  ; 
but  by  and  by  she  would  artfully  hint  at  this 
and  that  little  improvement  in  the  menages 
of  her  pensioners,  until,  in  less  than  a  month, 
without  having  either  lectured  or  offended, 
she  had  worked  an  entire  transformation. 
Mrs.  Floyd  Avas  frightfully  artful  in  her  deal- 
ings with  these  erring  peasants.  Insteaii  of 
telling  them  at  once  in  a  candid  and  Chris- 
tian-like manner  that  they  Avere  all  dirty, 
degraded,  ungrateful,  and  irreligious,  she  di- 
plomatized and  finessed  with  them  as  if  she 
had  been  canvassing  the  county.  She  made 
the  girls  regular  in  their  attendance  at  church 
by  means  of  new  bonnets  ;  she  kept  married 
men  out  of  the  public  houses  by  bribes  of 
tobacco  to  smoke  at  home,  and  once  (oh, 
horror!)  by  the  gift  of  a  bottle  of  gin.  She 
cured  a  dirty  chimney-piece  by  the  present 
of  a  gaudy  china  vase  to  its  proprietress,  and 
a  slovenly  hearth  by  means  of  a  brass  fender. 
She  repaired  a  shrcAvish  temper  Avith  a  new 
gOAvn,  and  patched  up  a  family  breach  of 
long  standing  with  a  chintz  Avaistcoat.  But 
one  brief  year  after  her  marriage  —  Avhile 
busy  landscape-gardeners  Avere  Avorking  at 
the  improverhents  she  had  planned ;  Avhile 
the  steady  process  of  reformation  Avas  slowly 
but  surely  progressing  among  the  grateful 
recipients  of  her  bounty  ;  Avhile  the  eager 
tongues  of  her  detractors  Averc  .still  waging 
war  upon  her  fair  fame ;  while  Archibald 
Floyd  rejoiced  aa  he  held  a  l)aby-daughter  in 
his  arms — without  one  forewarning  symptom 
to  break  the  force  of  the  blow,  the  light 
slowly  faded  out  of  those  glorious  eves,  never 
to  shine  again  on  this  side  of  etei-nity,  and 
Archibald  Martin  Floyd  Avas  a  AvidoAver. 


CHAPTER  IL 

AURORA. 

The  child  which  Eliza  Floyd  left  behind 
her,  when  she  Avas  so  suddenly  taken  away 
from  all  earthly  prosperity  and  happiness, 
was  christened  Aurora.  The  romantic-sound- 
ing name  had  been  a  fancy  of  poor  Eliza's  ; 
and  there  Avas  no  caprice  of  hers,  however 
trifling,  that  had  not  alwajs  been  sacred  Avith 
her  adoring  husband,  and  that  Avas  not  doubly 
sacred  noAv.  The  actual  intensity  of  the 
Avidowei''s  grief  Avas  knoAvn  to  no  creature 
in  this  lower  world.  His  nephews  and  his 
nephews'  Avives  paid  him  pertinacious  visits 
of  condolence ;  nay,  one  of  these  nieces  by 
marriage,  a  good,  motherly  creature,  devoted 


AURORA.  FLOYD. 


to  her  liusbaiul,  insisted  on  seeing  and  com- 
forting tlie  stricken  man.  Heaven  knoAvs 
whether  her  tenderness  did  convey  any  com- 
fort to  that  shipwrecked  soul.  She  found 
him  like  a  man  who  had  suffered  from  a  stroke 
of  paralysis,  torpid,  almost  imbecile.  Per- 
haps she  took  tlie  wisest  course  that  could 
possibly  be  taken.  8he  said  little  to  him 
upon  the  subject  of  his  affliction,  but  visited 
him  frequently,  jiatiently  sitting  opposite  to 
him  for  hovirs  at  a  time,  lie  and  she  talking  of 
all  manner  of  easy  conventional  topics  —  the 
state  of  the  country,  the  weather,  a  change 
in  the  ministry,  and  such  subjects  as  were  so 
far  remote  from  the  grief  of  his  life,  that  a 
less  careful  hand  than  Mrs.  Alexander  Floyd's 
could  have  scarcely  touched  u])on  the  broken 
chords  of  that  I'uined  Instrument,  the  widow- 
er's heart. 

It  wa.s  not  until  six  months  after  Eliza's 
death  that  Mrs.  Alexander  ventured  to  utter 
her  name;  but  when  she  did  speak  of  her,  it 
was  with  no  solemn  hesitation,  but  tenderly 
and  familiarly,  as  if  she  had  been  accustomed 
to  talk  of  the  dead.  She  saw  at  once  that 
she  ha<l  done  right.  The  time  had  come  tor 
the  widower  to  feel  relief  in  speaking  of  the 
lost  one  ;  and  from  that  iiour  ^irs.  Alexander 
became  a  favorite  with  her  uncle.  Years 
after,  he  told  her  that,  even  in  the  sullen 
torpor  of  his  grief,  he  had  had  a  dim  con- 
sciousness that  she  pitied  him,  and  that  she 
was  "  a  good  woman."  •  This  good  woman 
came  that  very  e\-ening  into  the  big  room, 
where  the  banker  sat  by  his  lonely  hearth, 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms  —  a  pale-face<i  child, 
with  great  wondering  black  eyes,  which  stared 
at  the  rich  man  in  sombre  astonishment;  a 
solemn-faced,  ugly  baby,  which  was  to  grow 
by  and  by  into  Aurora  Floyd,  the  heroine  of 
my  story. 

That  pale,  black-eyed  baby  became  hence- 
forth the  Idol  of  Archibald  Martin  Floyd, 
the  one  object  in  all  this  wide  universe  lor 
which  it  seemed  \vorth  his  while  to  endure 
life.  From  the  day  of  his  wife's  death  he 
bad  abandoned  all  active  share  in  the  Lom- 
bard-street business,  and  he  had  now  neither 
occupation  nor  delight  save  in  waiting  upon 
the  ])rattllngs  and  humoring  the  capri  ;es  of 
this  infant  daughter.  His  love  for  her  was  a 
weakness,  almost  verging  upon  a  madness. 
Had  his  nephews  been  very  designing  men, 
they  might  perhaps  have  entertained  some 
vague  ideas  of  that  commission  of  lunacy  for 
which  the  outraged  neighl)ors  were  so  anx- 
ious, lie  grudged  the  hired  nurses  their 
offices  of  love  about  the  person  of  his  child. 
He  watched  them  furtively,  fearful  lest  they 
should  be  harsh  with  her.  All  the  ponderous 
doors  in  the  great  house  at  Feldcn  Woods 
could  not  drown  the  feeblest  murnj^ir  of  that 
infant  voice  to  those  ever- anxious,  loving 
ears. 

He  watched  her  growth  as  a  child  watches 


an  acorn  it  Iiopes  to  rear  to  an  oak.  He 
repeated  her  broken  baby-syllables  till  people 
grew  weary  of  his  babble  about  the  child. 
Of  course  the  end  of  all  this  was,  that,  in 
the  common  acceptation  of  the  term,  Aurora 
was  spoiled.  We  do  not  say  a  flower  Is  spoil- 
ed because  it  is  reared  in  a  hot-house  where 
no  breath  of  heaven  can  visit  it  too  roughly; 
but  then,  certainly,  the  bright  exotic  istrim- 
med  and  pruned  by  the  gardener's  merciless 
hand,  while  Aurora  shot'whither  she  would, 
and  there  was  none  to  lop  the  wanderlnj 
branches  of  that  luxuriant  nature.  Slie  said 
Avhat  she  pleased;  thought,  spoke,  acted  as 
she  pleased;  learned  what  she  j)!eased ;  and 
she  grew  into  a  bright,  impetuous  b(Mnnr, 
affectionate  and  generous  -  hearted  as  her 
mother,  but  with  some  touch  of  native  fire 
blended  in  her  mould  that  stamped  her  as 
original.  It  is  the  common  habit  of  ufly 
babies  to  grow  into  handsome  women,  and  so 
it  was  with  Aurora  Floyd.  At  seventeen 
she  Avas  twice  as  beautiful  as  her  mother  had 
been  at  nine-and-twenty,  but  Avith  much  the 
same  irregidar  features,  lighted  up  by  a  pair 
of  eyes  that  were  like  the  stars  of  heaven, 
and  by  two  roAvs  of  peerlessly  Avhite  teeth. 
You  rarely,  In  looking  at  her  face,  could  get 
beyond  these  eyes  and  teeth;  for  they  so 
dazzled  and  blinded  you  that  they  defied  you 
to  criticise  the  doubtful  little  nose,  or  the 
Avidth  of  the  smiling  mouth.  What  if  those 
masses  of  blue-black  hair  Avcre  brushed  aAvay 
from  a  Ibrehead  too  Ioav  for  the  common 
standard  of  beauty  V  A  phrenologist  Avould 
have  told  }ou  that  the  head  Avas  a  noble  one; 
and  a  sculptor  avouKI  liave  added  that  it  w^as 
set  upon  the  throat  of  a  Cleopatra. 

Miss  Floyd  kncAv  very  little  of  her  poor 
mother's  history.  There  Avas  a  picture  in 
crayons  hanging  in  the  banker's  savclwn 
sanctonan  Avhich  represented  Eliza  in  the  full 
Hush  of  Iwx,  beauty  and  prosiperity,  but  the 
portrait  told  nothing  of  the  history  of  the 
original,  and  Aurora  had  never  heard  of  the 
merchant-captain,  the  poor  Liverpool  lodg- 
ing, the  grim  aunt  Avho  kept  a  chandler's 
shop,  the  artificial  fioAver-makIng,  and  the 
provincial  stage.  She  had  never  been  told 
that  her  maternal  grandfather's  name  Avas 
Prodder,  and  that  her  mother  had  played 
Juliet  to  an  audience  of  factory  hands  for 
the  moderate  and  sometimes  uncertain  sti- 
pend of  four  and  twopence  a  night.  The 
county  fann'Iies  accepted  and  made  much  of 
the  rich  banker's  heiress  ;  but  they  were  not 
slow  to  say  that  Aurora  w;is  her  mother's 
own  daughter,  and  had  the  taint  of  the  play- 
acting and  iiorse-riding,  the  spangles  and  the 
saAvdust,  strong  in  her  nature.  The  truth  of 
the  matter  is,  that  belbre  Miss  Floyd  emerged 
from  the  nursery  she  evinced  a  very  decided 
tendency  to  become  what  is  called  "fast."' 
At  si.\  years  of  age  she  rejei-ted  a  doll  and 
asked  for  a  rocking-horse.     At  ten  she  could 


10 


AURORA  Fr,OYD. 


converse  fluently  upon  tlie  subject  of  jjoint- 
ers,  setters,  fox-hounds,  liarriers,  and  beagle?, 
though  she  drove  her  governess  to  the  verge 
of  de<])air  by  persistently  forgetting  under 
wliat  Roman  eniperoi'  Jerusalem  was  destroy- 
ed, and  who  was  legate  to  the  Pope  at  the 
time  of  Catharine  of  Aragon's  divorce.  At 
eleven  she  talked  unreservedly  of  the  horses 
in  the  Lenfield  stables  as  a  pack  of  screws; 
at  twelve  she  contributcil  her  half-crown  to 
a  Derby  sweepstakes  among  her  father's  ser- 
vants, and  trinmphantly  drew  the  winning 
horse;  and  at  thirtcuin  slie  rode  across  coun- 
try with  !ier  uncle  Andrew,  who  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Croydon  hunt.  It  was  not  without 
grief  that  t!ie  banker  watched  his  daughter's 
progress  in  these  doubtful  accoinplishments ; 
but  she  was  so  beautiful,  so  frank  and  fear- 
less, so  generous,  affectionate,  and  true,  that 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  tell  her  that 
she  was  not  all  he  could  desire  her  to  be.  If 
he  could  liave  governed  or  directed  that  im- 
petuous nature,  he  would  have  had  her  the 
most  refined  and  elegant,  the  most  perfect 
and  accomplished  of  her  sex ;  but  he  could 
not  do  tliis,  and  he  was  fain  to  thank  God 
for  her  as  she  was,  and  to  indulge  her  every 
wbim. 

Alexander  Floyd's  eldest  daughter,  Lucy, 
first  cousin,  once  removed  to  Aurora,  Avas 
that  young  lady's  friend  and  confidante,  and 
came  now  and  then  from  her  father's  villa  at 
Fulham  to  spend  a  month  at  Felden  Woods. 
lint  Lucy  Floyd  hail  half  a  dozen  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  was  brought  up  in  a  very 
different  manner  from  the  heiress.  Slie  was  a 
fair-faced,  blue-eyed,  rosy-lipped,  golden- 
haired  little  girl,  who  thought  Felden  Woods 
a  paradise  upon  earth,  and  Aui'ora  more  for- 
tunate than  the  Princess  Royal  of  England, 
or  Titania,  Queen  of  the  Fairies.  She  was 
direfuUy  afraid  of  her  cousin's  ponies  and 
Newfoundland  dogs,  and  had  a  ^rm  convic- 
tion that  sudden  death  held  his  throne  within 
a  certain  ratlins  of  a  horse's  heels;  but  she 
loved  and  admired  Aurora,  after  the  manner 
common  to  tiiese  weaker  natures,  and  ac- 
cepted Miss  Floyd's  superb  patronage  and 
protection  as  a  thing  of  coiirse. 

The  day  rame  when  some  dark  but  unde- 
fined cloud  hovered  about  the  narrow  home 
circle  at  Felden  Woods.  There  was  a  cool- 
ness between  the  bar.kcr  and  his  beloved 
child.  The  young  lady  spent  half  her  time 
on  hor.seback,  scouring  the  shady  lanes  round 
Beckenhani,  attended  only  by  her  groom — a 
dashing  young  fellow,  chosen  by  Mr.  Floyd 
on  account  of  his  good  looks  for  Aurora's 
especial  service.  Siie  dined  in  her  own  room 
after  these  long,  lonely  rides,  leaving  her 
father  to  eat  his  solitary  meal  in  the  vast 
dining-room,  which  seemed  to  be  fully  oc- 
cupied when  she  sat  in  it,  and  desolately 
empty  without  her.  Tlie  household  at  Fel- 
den Woods  long  remembi-red  one  particular 


June  evening  on  which  the  storm  burst  forth 
between  the  father  and  daughter. 

Aurora  had  been  absent  from  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  until  sunset,  and  the  banker 
paced  the  long  stone  terrace  with  his  watch 
in  his  hand,  the  figures  on  the  dial-plate 
barely  distinguishable  in  the  twilight,  waiting 
for  his  daughter's  coming  home.  He  had 
sent  his  dinner  away  untouched ;  his  news- 
papers lay  uncut  upon  the  table,  and  the 
household  spies  we  call  servants  told  each 
other  how  liis  hand  had  shaken  so  violently 
that  he  liad  spilled  half  a  decanter  of  wine 
over  the  polished  mahogany  in  attempting  to 
fill  his  glass.  The  housekeeper  and  her  satel- 
lites crept  into  the  hall,  and  looked  through 
the  half-glass  doors  at  the  anxious  watcher 
on  the  terrace.  The  men  in  the  stables 
talked  of  "  the  row,"  as  they  called  this  ter- 
rible breach  between  father  and  child;  and 
when  at  last  horses'  hoofs  were  heard  in  the 
long  avenue,  and  Miss  Floyd  reined  in  her 
thorough-bred  chestnut  at  the  foot  of  the 
terrace-steps,  there  was  a  lurking  audience 
hidden  here  and  there  in  the  evening  shadow 
eager  to  hear  and  see. 

But  there  was  very  little  to  gratify  these 
prying  eyes  and  ears.  Aurora  sprang  lightly 
to  the  ground  before  the  groom  could  dis- 
mount to  assist  her,  and  the  chestnut,  with 
heaving  and  foam-fiecked  sides,  was  led  off  to 
the  stable. 

Mr.  Fldyd  watched  the  groom  and  the  two 
horses  as  they  disappeared  tln-ough  the  great 
gates  leading  to  the  stable-yard,  and  then 
said  very  quietly,  "  You  don't  use  that  animal 
well,  Aurora.  A  six  hours  ride  is  neither 
good  for  her  nor  for  you.  Your  gi'oom  should 
have  known  better  than  to  allow  it."  He  led 
the  way  into  his  study,  telling  his  daughter  to 
follow  him,  and  they  were  closeted  together 
ler  upward  of  an  hour. 

Early  the  next  morning  Miss  Floyd's  gov- 
erness departed  from  Felden  Woods,  and 
between  breakfast  and  luncheon  the  banker 
paid  a  visit  to  the  stables,  and  examined  his 
daughter's  favorite  chestnut  mare,  a  beautiful 
fiily,  all  bone  and  muscle,  that  had  been 
trained  for  a  racei'.  The  animal  had  strained 
a  sinew,  and  walked  lame.  Mr.  Floyd  sent 
for  his  daughter's  groom,  and  paid  and  dis- 
missed him  on  the  spot.  The  young  fellow 
made  no  remonstrance,  but  went  tpiietly  to 
his  quarters,  took  off  his  livery,  packed  a 
carpet-bag,  and  walked  away  from  the  house 
without  bidding  good-by  to  his  fellow-ser- 
vants, who  resented  the  affront,  and  pro- 
nounced him  a  surly  brute,  whose  absence 
was  no  loss  to  the  household. 

Three  days  after  this,  uj)on  the  14th  of 
June,  18.5G,  Mr.  Floyd  and  his  daughter  left 
Felden  lyoods  for  Paris,  where  Aurora  was 
placed  at  a  very  expensive  and  exclusive 
Protestant  finishing  school,  kept  by  the 
Demoiselles   Lespard,   in    a   stately    mansion 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


11 


entre  cnur  et  janUn  in  the  Rue  Saint  Dom- 
inique, there  to  complete  her  very  imperfect 
education. 

For  a  year  and  tAvo  months  Miss  Floyd  lias 
been  away  at  tiiis  Parisian  finisliing  school; 
it  is  late  in  the  August  of  18;') 7,  and  again 
the  banker  walks  upon  the  long  stone  ter- 
race in  front  of  the  narrow  windows  of  his 
red-brick  mansion,  this  time  waiting  for  Avi- 
rora's  arrival  from  Paj-is.  Tlio  servants  have 
expressed  considerable  wonder  at  his  not 
crossing  the  Channel  to  fctcli  his  daughter, 
and  the,}-  thi'ik  the  dignity  of  the  house 
somcwliat  lowered  by  Miss  Floyd's  travelling 
unattended. 

"  A  [)Oor,  dear  young  thing,  that  knows  no 
more  of  this  wicked  world  than  a  blessed 
liaby,"  -saiil  the  housekee])er,  "  all  alone 
among  a  pack  of  mustaclied  Frenchmen." 

Archibald  Martin  Floyd  had  grown  an  old 
man  in  otic  day  —  that  terrible  and  unex- 
pected day  of  his  wife's  death  ;  but  even  the 
grief  of  that  bereavement  had  scarcely  seemed 
to  affect  him  so  strongly  as  the  loss  of  his 
Aurora  during  the  fourteen  months  of"  her 
absence  from  Felden  ^Voods. 

Perhaps  it  was  that  at  sixty-five  years  of 
age  he  was  less  able  to  bear  even  a  lesser 
grief;  but  those  who  watched  him  closely 
declared  that  he  secme<I  as  much  dejected  by 
his  daughter's  absence  as  he  could  well  have 
been  by  her  death.  Even  now,  that  he  paces 
up  and  down  the  broail  terrace,  with  the 
landscape  stretching  wide  before  him,  and 
meltjng  vaguely  away  under  that  veil  of 
crimson  glory  shed  upon  all  things  by  the 
sinking  sun — even  now  that  he  houjly,  nay, 
almost  momentarily,  expect.s  to  <'lasp  his  only 
child  in  his  arms,  Archibald  Floyd  seems 
rather  nervously  anxious  than  joyfully  ex- 
pectant. 

He  looks  again  and  again  at  his  watch,  and 
pauses  in  his  walk  to  listen  to  Beckenham 
church-clock  striking  eight ;  his  ears  are  pre- 
ternaturaliy  alert  fo  every  sound,  and  give 
him  instant  warning  of  carriage-wheels  far 
oir  upon  the  wide  high-road.  All  tlie  agita- 
tion and  anxiety  he  has  felt  for  the  last  week 
has  been  les.s  than  the  concentrated  fever  of 
this  moment.  Will  it  pass  on.  tliat  carriage, 
or  stop  at  the  lodge-gates  ?  Surely  his  heart 
could  never  beat  .so  loud  save  by  some  won- 
drous magnetism  of  fatiierly  love  and  hope. 
The  carriage  slops.  He  hears  tlie  clanking 
of  the  gates;  thi;  crimson-tiiite<l  landscape 
grows  dmi  and  blurred  before  his  eyes,  ami 
he  knows  no  more  til!  a  pair  of  impetuous 
arms  arc  twined  about  his  neck,  and  Aurora's 
face  is  hidden  on  his  shoulder. 

It  was  a  paltry  hired  carriage  which  Miss 
Floyd  arri\ed  in,  and  it  drove  away  as  soon 
as  she  had  alightitd,  ami  the  small  amount  of 
luggage  she  brought  had  been  handed  to  the 
eager  servants.  The  banker  leil  his  child 
into  the  study,  where  thev  had  held  that  long 


conference  fourteen  months  before.  A  lamp 
burned  upon  the  library  tabic,  and  it  was 
to  this  light  that  Archibald  Floyd  led  his 
daughter. 

A  year  had  changed  the  girl  to  a  woman — 
a  woman  with  great  hollow  black  eyes,  and 
pale,  haggard  cheeks.  The  eour.se  of  study 
at  tlic  Parisian  finisliing  school  had  evidently 
been  too  hard  for  the  spoiled  heiress. 

"  Aurora,  Aurora,"  tlie  old  man  cried  pite- 
ously,  "how  ill  you  look  I  how  altered,  how 

She  laid  her  hand  lightly  yet  imperiously 
upon  his  lips. 

"  Don't  speak  of  me,"  she  said,  "  I  shall 
recover;  but  you  —  you,  father  —  you  too  are 
changed." 

She  was  as  tall  as  her  father,  and,  resting 
her  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  slie  looked  at 
him  long  and  earnestly.  As  she  looked,  the 
tears  welled  slowly  up  to  her  eyes,  which  had 
been  dry  before,  and  poured  silently  down  her 
haggard  cheok.'^. 

"  My  father,  my  devoted  father,"  she  said, 
in  a  bi-okcn  voice,  "  if  ni}'  lu^art  was  made  of 
adamant  1  think  it  might  break  when  I  .see 
the  (diange  in  this  beloved  face." 

The  ohl  man  checked  her  with  a  nervous 
gesture — a  gesture  almost  of  terror. 

''  Not  one  word  —  not  one  word,  Aurora," 
he  said,  hurriedly;  "  at  least,  only  one.  That 
person — he  is  dead  ?" 

"  He  is." 


CHAPTER  HI. 

AVH.\T  15KCA>rK  OV  THE  DIAMOND  JiKACKI.KT. 

Aurora's  aunt.«,  uncles,  and  cousins  were 
not  slow  to  e.xclaim  upon  the  change  for  the 
worse  which  a  twelvemonth  in  I'aris  had 
made  in  their  young  kinswoman.  I  fear  that 
the  Demoiselles  Les))ard  sufl'ered  consider- 
ably in  reputation  among  the  circle  round 
Felden  Woods  from  Miss  I'^loyd's  imjiaired 
good  looks.  She  was  out  of  spirits  too,  had 
no  appetite,  slept  badly,  was  nervous  and 
hysterical,  no  longer  took  any  interest  in  her 
dogs  and  horses,  and  was  altogether  an  al- 
tered creature.  Mrs.  Alexandttr  Floyd  de- 
clared it  was  perfe<tly  clear  that  these  cruel 
Frenchwomen  had  worked  poor  Aurora  to  a 
shadow :  the  girl  was  not  used  to  study,  she 
said  ;  she  had  been  accustomed  to  «!.\ercise 
and  open  air,  and  nodoulit  j)ined  sadly  in  the 
close  atmosphere  of  a  school-room. 

Hut  Aurora's  was  one  of  those  impression- 
able natunts  which  ipiickly  rccov»T  from  any 
dcjire.ssing  influence.  Early  in  Sej)tember 
Lucy  Floyd  came  to  Fehlen  Woods,  and 
found  her  handsome  cousin  almost  entirely 
recovered  from  the  dnidgery  of  the  Parisian 
pctmion,  but  still  very  loath  to  talk  much  of 
that  seuiin.ary.     She  answered   Lucy's  eager 


12 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


questions  very  curtly;  saiil  that  she  hated  the 
DemoiseHes  Lespard  and  the  Rue  Saint 
Domini(iui'.,  and  that  the  very  memory  ot 
Paris  was  di.sagreeahki  to  lier.  Like  most 
younir  ladies  with  black  eyes  and  blue-blaek 
hair,  Miss  Floyd  was  a  good  hater;  so  Lucy 
forbore,  to  ask  for  more  information  upon 
-what  was  so  evidently  an  unpleasant  subject 
to  her  cousin.  Poor'  Lucy  had  been  merci- 
lessly well  educated ;  she  spoke  half  a  dozen 
lanuuaires,  knew  all  about  the  natural  sci- 
ences, had  read  Gibbon,  Niebuhr,  and  Arnold 
from  the  title-page  to  the  printer's  name,  and 
looked  upon  tl'.e  heiress  as  a  big  brilliant 
dunce  ;  so  she  quietly  set  down  Aurora's  dis- 
like to  Paris  to  that  young  lady's  distate  for 
tuition,  and  thought  little  more  about  it. 
Any  other  reasons  for  Miss  Floyd's  almost 
shuddering  horror  of  her  Parisian  associations 
lay  far  beyond  Lucy's  simple  power  of  pene- 
tration. 

The  fifteenth  of  September  was  Aurora's 
birthday,  and  Archibald  Floyd  determined, 
upon  this,  the  nineteenth  anniversary  of  his 
daughter's  first  appearance  on  this  mortal 
scene,  to  give  an  entertainment,  whereat  his 
country  iieighbors  and  town  acquaintance 
might  alike  behold  and  admire  the  beautiful 
heiress. 

Mrs.  Alexander  came  to  Felden  Woods  to 
superintend  the  preparations  for  this  birthday 
ball.  She  drove  Aurora  and  Lucy  into  town 
to  order  the  supper  and  the  band,  and  to 
choose  dresses  and  wreaths  for  the  young 
ladies.  The  banker's  heiress  was  sadly  out 
of  place  in  a  milliner's  show-room ;  but  she 
had  that  rapid  judgment  as  to  color,  and  that 
perfect  taste  in  form,  which  bespeak  the  soul 
of  an  artist ;  and  while  poor  mild  Lucy  was 
giving  endless  trouble,  and  tumbling  innu- 
merable boxes  of  flowers,  before  she  could 
find  any  head-dress  in  harmony  with  her 
rosy  cheeks  and  golden  hair,  Aurora,  after 
one  brief  glance  at  the  bright  parterres  of 
painted  cambric,  pounced  U[)on  a  crown- 
shaped  garland  of  vivid  scarlet  berries,  with 
drooping  and  tangled  leaves  of  dark  shining 
green,  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  just 
j)luckcd  (Vom  a  running  streamlet.  Siie 
watched  Lucy's  perj)lexities  with  a  half  com- 
jiassionate,  half  contemptuous  smile. 

"  l/ook  at  that  poor  child.  Aunt  Lizzie," 
she  said  ;  "  I  know  that  she  Avould  like  to  put 
pink  and  yellow  against  her  golden  hair. 
Why,  you  silly  Lucy,  don't  you  know  that 
yours  is  the  beauty  which  really  does  not 
want  adornment?  A  few  pearls  or  forget-me- 
not  blossoms,  or  a  crown  of  water  lilies  and  a 
cloud  of  white  areophane,  would  make  you 
look  a  sylphide;  but  I  dare  say  you  would 
like  to  wear  amber  satin  and  (■aljbagc-roscs." 
From  the  milliner's  they  drove  to  Mr. 
Gunter's  in  Berkcdey  S(piare,  at  which  world- 
renowned  establishment  Mrs.  Alexander  com- 
manded  those   preparations  of  turkeys  pre- 


served in  jelly,  hams  cunningly  embalmed  in 
rich  wines  and  broths,  and  other  specimens  of 
that  sublime  art  of  confectionery  which  hoA'ers 
midway  between  sleight  of  hand  and  cookery, 
and  in  which  the  Berkeley  Square  professor 
is  without  a  rival.  When  poor  Thomas  Bab- 
ington  Macaulay's  New  Zealander  shall  come 
to  ponder  over  the  ruins  of  St.  Paul's,  perhaps 
he  will  visit  the  remains  of  this  humbler 
temple  in  Berkeley  Square,  and  wonder  at 
the  ice-pails  and  jelly-moulds,  and  refrigerators 
and  stewpans,  the  hot  plates,  long  cold  and 
unheeded,  and  all  the  mysterious  parapher- 
nalia of  the  dead  art. 

From  the  "West  End  INIrs.  Alexander  drove 
to  Charing  Cross;  she  had  a  commission  to 
execute  at  Dent's  —  the  purchase  of  a  watch 
for  one  of  her  boys,  who  was  just  off  to  Eton. 
Aurora  threw  herself  wearily  back  in  the 
carriage  while  her  aunt  and  Lucy  stopped  at 
the   watchmaker's.     It   was   to   be    observed 
that,    although   Miss   Floyd    had    recovered 
much  of  her  old  brilliancy  and  gayety  of  tem- 
per, a  certain  gloomy  shad(!  would  sometimes 
steal  over  her  countenance  when  she  was  left  to 
herself  for  a  few  minutes — a  darkly  reflective 
expression,   quite  foreign  to   her  face.     This 
shadow  fell  upon  her  beauty  now  as  she  looked 
out  of  the  open  window,  mooilily  watching  the 
passers-by.     Mrs.  Alexander  was  a  long  time 
making  her   purchase,  and   Aurora   had   sat 
I  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  blankly  staring 
I  at  the  shiftiug  iigures  in  the  cro>yd,  when  a 
man  hurrying  by  was  attracted  by  her  face  at 
the  carriage- window,  and  started,  as  if  at 
some  great  surprise.     He  passed  on,  however, 
and  walked  rapidly  toward  the  Horse  Guards; 
I  but,  before  he  turned  the  corner,  came  to  a 
dead  stop,  stood  still  for  two  or  three  minutes 
scratching  the  back  of  his   head  reflectively 
with    his   big   bai*e   hand,  and    then    walked 
slowly  back  toward  Mr.  Dent's  emporium.  He 
was  a  broad-shouldered,  bull -necked,  sandy- 
whiskered  fellow,  wearing  a  cut-away  coat 
and  a  gaudy  neckerchief,  and  smoking  a  huge 
cigar,  the  rank  fumes  of  which  struggled  with 
a  very  powerful  odor  of  rum  and  water  re- 
cently imbibed.     This   gentleman's   standing 
in  society  was  betrayed  by  the  smooth  head  of 
a  bull-terrier,  whose  round  eyes  peeped  out  of 
the  pocket  of  his  cut  -  away  coat,  and  by  a 
Blenheim  sj)aniel  can-ied  under  his  arm.     He 
was  the  very  last  person,  among  all  the  souls 
between    Cocksf)ur  street  and  the  statue  ot 
King    Charles,    who    seemed   likely  to   have 
anvthing  to  say  to  Miss  Aurora  Floyd;  never- 
theless, he  walked  deliberately  up  to  the  car- 
riage, and,  planting  his  elbows  upon  the  door, 
nodded  to  her  with  friendly  familiarity. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  without  inconveniencing 
himself  by  the  removal  of  the  rank  cigar, 
*'  how  do  ?" 

After  which  brief  salutation  he  relapsed 
into  silence,  and  rolled  his  great  brown  eyes 
slowly  here  and  there,  in  contemplative  ex- 


AURORA  Fl.OYD. 


13 


aiyination  of  Miss  Floyd  and  the  vehicle  in 
Avhich  she  sat  —  even  carrving  his  powers  of 
observation  so  far  as  to  take  ])articular  notice 
of  a  plethoric  morocco  bag  lyinir  on  the  back 
seat,  and  to  inquire  casnally  ■whether  there 
was  "  anythink  wallable  in  the  old  party's  red- 
icule." 

But  Aurora  did  not  allow  him  long  for  this 
leisurely  employment;  for,  looking  at  him 
witli  iuT  eyes  Hashing  forked  lightnings  of" 
Avomanly  fury,  and  her  face  crimson  with  in- 
dignation, she  asked  him,  in  a  sharp,  s])as- 
modic  tone,  Avhether  he  had  anything  to  say 
to  her. 

He  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  her ;  but  as 
he  put  his  htvul  in  at  the  carriage- window 
and  made  his  comiyunication,  whatever  it 
might  be,  in  a  rum  and  watery  whisper,  it 
reached  no  ears  but  those  of  Aurora  herself 
When  he  had  done  whispering,  he  took  a 
greasy,  leather-covered  account-book,  and  a 
short  stump  of  lead  pencil,  considerably  the 
worse  for  chewing,  from  his  waistcoat-pocket, 
and  wrote  two  or  three  lines  upon  a  leaf, 
which  he  tore  out  and  handed  to  Aurora. 
"  This  is  tlie  address,"  he  said ;  "  you  won't 
forget  to  send  V" 

She  shook  her  liead,  and  looked  away  from 
liim  —  looked  away  with  an  irrej)ressible  gest- 
ure of  disgust  and  loathing. 

"  You  wouldn't  like  to  buy  a  spannel  dawg,'' 
said  the  man,  liolding  the  sleek,  curly,  black 
and  tan  animal  up  to  the  carriage-window, 
"  or  a  French  poodle  what  '11  balance  a  bit  of 
bread  r>n  his  nose  while  you  count  ten  ?  Iley  V 
You  sliould  have  him  a  bargain  —  say  fifteen 
pound  the  two." 

"  No  !" 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Alexanrler  emerged 
from  the  watchmaker's,  just  in  time  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  man's  broad  shoulders  as  he 
moved  sulkily  away  from  the  carriage. 

"  Has  tliat  ])ersou  been  begging  of  you, 
Aurora?"  she  asked,  as  they  drove  off. 

"  No.  1  once  bought  a  dog  of  him,  and  he 
recognized  me." 

"  And  wanted  vou  to  Imv  one  to-dav  V  ' 

"Yes.'' 

Miss  Floyd  sat  gloomily  silent  during  the 
whole  of  the  honiewar<l  drivt-,  looking  out  of 
the  rarriage-wiiidow,  and  not  deigning  to  take 
.'iny  notice  whatever  of  her  aunt  and  cousin. 
T  do  not  know  whether  it  was  in  submission  to 
that  paliiable  superiority  of  force  an<l  vitalitv 
in  Aurora's  nature  which  seemed  to  set  her 
above  her  fellows,  or  sim])ly  in  that  inherent 
spirit  of  toadyism  conunon  to  the  bi>st  of  us  ; 
but  Mr.<.  .'Mexander  and  licr  fair -haired 
daughter  always  paid  mute  reverence  to  tin; 
banker's  Iniress,  and  were  sih'ut  M-hen  it 
pleased  her,  or  i  on  versed  at  her  royal  will. 
I  verily  beli(\e  that  it  wa^  Aurora's  eyes 
rather  than  Archibald  Martin  Floyd's  ti)OU- 
sands  that  overawed  all  her  kinsfolk;  and 
that  if  she  had  been  a  street-sweeper  dressed 


in  rags  and  begging  for  half-pence,  people 
would  have  feared  her  and  made  wny  for  her, 
and  bated  their  breath  when  slu>  was  angry. 

The  trees  in  the  long  avenue  of  Felden 
Woods  were  hung  with  sparkling  colored 
lamps,  to  light  the  guests  who  came  to  Auro- 
ra's birthday  festival.  The  long  range  _ot 
windows  on  the  ground-floor  was  ablaze  with 
light;  the  crash  of  the  band  burst  every  now 
and  then  above  the  perpetual  roll  of  carriage- 
wheels,  and  the  slioutcd  repetition  of  visitors' 
names,  and  pealed  acro.<s  the  silent  woods; 
through  the  long  vista  of  half  a  dozen  rooms 
optuiing  one  into  another,  the  waters  of  a 
fountain,  sparkling  with  a  hundred  hues  in 
the  light,  glittered  amid  the  dark  floral  wealth 
of  a  conservatory  fdled  with  exotics.  Great 
clusters  of  tropical  ))lants  were  grouped  in 
the  spacious  hall  ;  festoons  of  flowers  hung 
about  the  vapory  curtains  in  the  arched  door- 
ways. Light  and  splendor  were  I'verywhere 
around  ;  and  amid  all,  and  more  splendid 
than  all,  in  the  dark  grandeur  of  her  beauty, 
Aurora  Floyd,  crowned  with  scarlet  and 
robed  in  white,  stood  by  her  father's  side. 

Among  the  guests  wlio  arrive  latest  at  Mr. 
Floyd's  ball  are  two  oflicers  from  Windsor, 
who  have  driven  across  the  country  in  a  mail 
phaeton.  The  ehler  of  these  two,  and  the 
driver  of  the  vehicle,  has  been  very  discon- 
tented and  disagreeable  throughout  the  jour- 
nev. 

''  If  I  'd  had  the  remotest  idea  of  the  dis- 
tance, Maldon,"  he  said,  "  I  'd  have  seen  you 
and  your  Kentish  banker  very  considerably 
inconvenienceil  before  I  would  have  consent- 
ed to  victimize  my  horse  for  the  sake  of  this 
snobbish  party," 

"But  it  Av'on't  be  a  snol)bi.-ili  party,"  an- 
swered the  young  man,  imjietuously.  "Archi- 
bald Floyd  "is  the.  best  fellow  in  Christendom, 
and  as  for  his  daughter — " 

"  Oh,  of  course^  a  divinity,  with  fifty  thou- 
sand i)Ounds  for  her  fortune,  all  of  which  will 
no  doubt  be  very  tightly  settled  upon  herself 
if  she  is  ever  allowed  to  marry  a  ])enniless 
scapegrace  like  Francis  Lewis  Maldon,  of  her 
Majesty's   11th   Hussars.     However,  I  don't 
i  want  to  stand  in  your  way,  my  boy.     Go  in 
I  and  win,  and  my  blessing  be  upon  your  vir- 
I  tuous  endeavor,**.     I  can  imagine  the  youna 
I  Scotchwoman  —  red    hair  (of  course  you  '11 

call  it  aiduirn),  large  feet,  and  freckles!" 
I  "  Aurora  Floyd  —  red  hair  and  freckles!" 
'  The  young  oflicer  laughed  aloud  at  the  stu- 
pendous joke.  "  You 'II  see  her  in  a  quarter 
i  of  an  hour.  Bulstrode."  he  .said. 
!  Tallmt  Bulstrode,  Captain  of  hor  Majesty's 
llUh  Hussars,  had  consentcfl  to  drive  his 
brother-oflicer  from  Win«Isor  to  Beckenham, 
;  and  to  arrav  himself  in  his  uniform,  in  order 
!  to  adorn  therewith  the  festival  at  Felden 
j  Woods,  chiefly  becaus»«,  having  at  two-and- 
i  thirty  years  of  age  run  through  all  the  wealth 
'  of  life's   excitements    and    anuisements,  and 


14 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


finding  himself  a  penniless  spendthrift  in  this 
spefies  of  foin,  thonirh  well  enougli  off"  for 
mere  sordid  riches,  he  was  too  tired  of  liim- 
self  and  the  world  to  eare  much  whither  his 
friends  and  comrades  led  him.  He  was  the 
eldest  son  of  a  wealthy  Cornish  baronet, 
whose  ancestor  had  received  his  title  straiirht 
from  the  han<ls  of  Scottish  Kinc;  James,  when 
baronetcies  first  came  into  fashion  ;  the  same 
fortunate  ancestor  bein^  near  akin  to  a  cer- 
tain noble,  erratic,  unfortunate,  and  injured 
gentleman  called  Walter  Raleigh,  and  by  no 
means  too  well  used  by  the  same  Scottish 
tTames.  Now,  of  all  the  pride  which  ever 
swelled  the  breasts  of  mankind,  the  pride  of 
Cornishmen  is  perliaps  the  strongest;  and  the 
Bulstrode  family  was  one  of  the  proudest  in 
Cornwall.  Talbot  was  no  alien  son  of  this 
hauglity  house ;  from  his  vo-y  babyhood  he 
had  been  the  proudest  of  mankind.  This 
pride,  had  been  the  saving  power  that  had 
])resided  over  his  prosperous  career.  Other 
men  might  have  made  a  downhill  road  of  that 
smooth  pathway  which  wealtli  and  grandeur 
made  so  pleasant,  but  not  Talbot  Bulstrode. 
The  vices  and  follies  of  the  common  herd 
were  perliajis  retrievable,  but  vice  or  folly  in 
a  Bulstrode  would  have  left  a  blot  upon  a 
hitherto  unblemished  escutcheon  never  to  be 
erased  by  time  or  tears.  That  pride  of  birth, 
which  was  utterly  unallied  to  pride  of  wealth 
or  station,  had  a  certain  noble  and  chivalrous 
side,  and  Talbot  Bulstrode  was  beloved  by 
many  a  j)arvenu  whom  meaner  men  would 
have  insulted.  In  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life 
he  was  as  humble  as  a  woman  or  a  child  ;  it 
was  only  when  Honor  was  in  question  that 
the  sleeping  dragon  of  pride  which  had 
guarded  the  golden  apples  of  his  youth,  pu- 
rity, probity,  and  truth,  awoke  and  bade 
defiance  to  the  enemy.  At  two-ancUthirty  he 
was  still  a  bachelor,  not  because  he  had  never 
loved,  but  because  he  had  never  met  with  a 
woman  whose  stainless  purity  of  soul  fitted  her 
in  his  eyes  to  become  the  mother  of  a  noble 
race,  and  to  rear  sons  who  should  do  honor 
to  the  name  of  Bulstrode.  He  looked  for  more 
than  ordinary  every-day  virtue  in  the  woman 
of  his  choice  ;  he  (lemanded  those  grand  and 
<ineenly  qualities  which  are  rarest  in  woman- 
kind. Fearless  truth,  a  sense  of  honor  keen 
as  his  own,  loyalty  of  purpose,  unselfishness, 
a  soul  untainted  by  the  petty  baseness  of 
daily  life — all  these  he  sought  in  the  being  he 
loved;  and  at  the  first  wariiing  thrill  of  emo- 
tion caused  l)y  a  pair  of  beautiful  eyes,  he 
grew  critical  and  captious  about  their  owner, 
and  began  to  look  for  infinitesimal  stains 
upon  the  sliining  robe  of  her  virginity.  He 
would  have  married  a  bejrgar's  daughter  if 
she  had  reached  his  almost  impossible  stand- 
ai-d;  he  would  have  rejected  the  descendant 
of  a  race  of  kings  if  she  had  fallen  one  deci- 
mal part  of  an  inch  below  it.  Women  feared 
Talbot  Bulstrode;  mantcuvring  mothers  shrank 


abashed  from  the  cold  light  of  those  watclij'ul 
gray  ej^s ;  daughters  to  marry  blushed  and 
trembled,  and  felt  their  jn-etty  affectations, 
their  ballroom  properties,  drop  away  from 
them  under  the  (juiet  gaze  of  the  young  offi- 
cer, till,  from  fearing  him,  the  lovely  flu tterers 
gi'cw  to  shun  and  dislike  iiim,  and  to  leave 
Bulstrode  Castle  and  the  Bulstrode  fortune 
unangled  for  in  the  great  matrimonial  fish- 
eries. So  at  two-and-thirty  Talbot  walked 
serenely  .safe  amid  the  meshes  and  pitfalls  of 
Belgravia,  secure  in  the  popular  belief  that 
Captain  Bulstrode,  of  the  11  th  Hussars,  was 
not  a  marrying  man.  This  belief  was  jierhaps 
strengthened  by  the  f;ict  that  the  Cornish- 
man  was  by  no  means  the  elegant  ignoramus 
whose  sole  accomplishment  consist  in  parting 
his  hair,  waxing  his  mustaches,  and  smoking  a 
meerschaum  that  has  been  colored  by  his 
valet,  and  who  has  become  the  accejited  type 
of  the  military  man  in  time  of  peace. 

Talbot  Bulstrode  was  fond  of  scientific 
pursuits;  he  neither  smoked,  drank,  nor  gam- 
bled. He  had  only  been  to  the  Derby  once 
in  his  life,  and  on  that  one  occasion  had  walk- 
ed quietly  away  from  the  stand  while  the 
great  race  was  being  run,  anfl  the  white  faces 
were  turned  toward  the  fatal  corner,  and 
men  were  sick  with  terror  and  anxiety,  and 
frenzied  with  the  madness  of  suspense.  He 
never  hunted,  though  he  rode  like  Colonel 
Asheton  Smith.  He  was  a  perfect  swords- 
man, and  one  of  Mr.  Angelo's  pet  pupils,  a 
favorite  lounger  in  the  gallery  of  that  simple- 
hearted,  honorable- minded  aentlemrtu  ;  but 
he  had  never  handled  a  billiard-cue  in  his  life, 
nor  had  he  touched  a  card  since  the  days  of  his 
boyhood,  Avhen  he  took  a  hand  at  long  whist 
with  his  father,  and  mother,  and  the  }>arson 
of  the  pax'ish,  in  the  south  drawing-room  at 
Bulstrode  Castle.  Pie  had  a  peculiar  aversion 
to  all  games  of  chance  and  skill,  contending 
that  it  was  beneath  a  gentleman  to  employ, 
even  for  amusement,  the  im})lements  of  the 
sharper's  pitiful  trade.  His  rooms  were  as 
neatly  ke})t  as  those  of  a  woma?i.  Cases  of 
mathematical  instimments  took  the  place  of 
cigar -boxes;  proof  impressions  of  Raphael 
adorned  the  walls  ordinarily  covered  with 
French  prints,  and  water- colore<l  sportinjr 
sketches  from  Ackermann's  emporium.  He 
was  familiar  with  every  turn  of  expression  in 
Descartes  and  Condillac,  but  would  have  been 
sorel_y  puzzled  to  translate  the  argotic  locutions 
of  Monsieur  de  Kock,7)t/-e.  Those  who  spoke 
of  him  sunnned  him  up  by  saying  that  he 
wasn't  a  bit  like  an  officer;  but  there  was  a 
certain  regiment  of  foot,  which  he  had  com- 
manded when  the  heights  of  Inkermann 
were  won,  whose  ranks  told  another  story  of 
Captain  Bulstrode.  He  had  made  an  ex- 
change into  the  11th  Hussars  on  his  return 
from  the  Crimea,  whence,  among  other  dis- 
tinctions, he  had  brought  a  stiff  leg,  which  for 
a  time  disqualified  him  from  dancing.     It  was 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


15 


from  pure  bonovolence,  therefore,  or  from 
that  indifference  to  all  thinjrs  which  is  easily 
mistaken  for  unselfishness,  that  Talbot  Bul- 
ptrode  had  i.-nnsented  to  accept  an  invitation 
to  the  ball  at  Felden  Woods. 

The  banker's  guests  were  not  of  that 
charmed  circle  familiar  to  the  Captain  of 
Hussars  ;  so  Talbot,  after  a  brief  introduc- 
tion ti)  his  host,  fell  back  among  the  crowd 
assembled  in  one  of  the  doorways,  and  ([uietly 
watched  the  dancers ;  not  unobserved  him- 
self, however,  for  he  was  just  one  of  those 
people  who  will  not  })ass  in  a  crowd.  Tall 
and  broad-chested,  with  a  pale,  whiskerless 
face,  acjuilinr  nose,  clear,  cold  gray  eyes, 
thick  mustache,  and  black  hair,  worn  as 
closely  cropped  as  if  he  had  lately  emerged 
from  Coldhath  Fields  or  Millbank  prison,  he 
formed  a  striking  contrast  to  the  yellow-whis- 
kered young  ensign  who  had  accompanied 
liim.  Even  that  stiff  leg,  which  in  others 
might  have  seemed  a  blemish,  added  to  the 
distinction  of  his  appearance,  and,  coui)led 
■with  the  glittering  oi-ders  on  the  breast  of 
his  uniform,  told  of  deeds  of  prowess  lately 
done.  He  took  very  little  delight  in  the 
gay  assembly  revolving  before  him  to  one  of 
Charles  d'Albert's  waltzes.  He  had  heard 
the  same  nuisic  before,  executed  by  the  same 
band ;  the  faces,  though  unfamiliar  to  him, 
were  not  new :  dark  beauties  in  pink,  fair 
beauties  in  blue;  tall,  dashing  beauties  in 
silks,  and  laces,  and  jewels,  and  splendor; 
modestly  downcast  beauties  in  white  ci-ape 
and  rose-buds.  They  had  all  been  spread 
for  him,  those  familiar  nets  of  gauze  ami 
areophane,  and  he  had  escaped  them  all ; 
and  the  name  of  Bulstrode  might  drop  out 
of  the  histoiy  of  Cornish  gentry  to  find  no 
record  save  upon  gravestones,  l)ut  it  woidd 
never  be  tarnished  by  an  unworthy  race,  or 
dragged  through  the  mire  of  a  divorce  court  ' 
by  a  guilty  woman.  While  he  lounged  against 
the  pillar  of  a  doorway,  leaning  on  his  i-ane, 
and  resting  his  lame  leg.  and  wondering  lazily 
whether  there  was  anything  upon  earth  that  \ 
repaid  a  man  ihr  the  trouble  of  living,  En- 
sign Maldon  a|t[)roai"h<'d  him  wiih  a  woman's 
gloved  hand  lying  lightly  on  his  anu,  and  a  | 
divinity  walking  by"  his*  side.  A  divinity! 
imperiously  beautiful  in  white  and  scarlet,  I 
painfully  dazzling  to  look  uf)on,  intoxicat-  '■ 
ingly  brilliant  to  behold.  Cajjtain  IJnIstrode 
had  ."Jcrved  in  India,  and  bad  once  tastetl  a 
horrible  spirit  called  Inivc/,  which  made  the 
men  who  drank  it  half-mad  ;  and  he  could  ' 
not  help  faiK-ying  that  the  beauty  of  this 
woman  was  like  the  strength  of  that  alcoholic 
preparation— barbarous,  into.xicating,  danger- 
ous, and  niaddening. 

His  brolher-ofiicer  presented  him  to  (his 
wonderful  creature,  and  he  found  lhat»her 
earthly  name  was  Aurora  Floyd,  and  that 
she  was  the  heiress  of  Fehhtn  Woods.  I 

Talbot   Rulstrode   recovered   himself  in   a 


moment.  This  imperious  creature,  this  Cleo- 
patra in  crinoline,  had  a  low  forehead,  a  nose 
that  deviated  front  the  line  of  beauty,  and  a 
wide  mouth.  What  was  she  but  another  trap 
set  in  wliite  muslin,  and  baited  with  artifioial 
Howers.  like  the  rest?  She  was  to  have  fifty 
thousan<l  pounds  for  her  portion,  so  she  didn't 
Avant  a  rich  husband  :  but  she  was  a  nobody, 
so  of  course  she  wanted  position,  ami  had  no 
doubt  read  up  the  Rnieigh  Bulstrodes  in  the 
sublime  pages  of  Burke.  The  clear  gray 
eyes  grew  cold  as  ever,  therefore,  as  Talbot 
bowed  to  the  heiress.  ^Ir.  Maldon  found  his 
partner  a  chair  close  to  the  pillar  against 
which  Cajitain  Bulstrode  had  taken  his  stand; 
and  Mrs.  Alexander  Floyd  swooj)ing  down 
ujjon  the  ensign  af  this  very  moment,  with 
the  dire  intent  of  carrying  him  off  to  dance 
with  a  lady  who  executed  more  of  her  steps 
upon  the  toes  of  her  partner  than  on  the 
floor  of  the  ball-room,  Aurora  and  'J'albot 
were  left  to  themselves. 

Captain  Bulstrode  glanced  downward  at 
the  banker's  daughter.  His  gaze  lingered 
u])on  the  graceful  head,  with  its  coronal 
of  shining  .scarlet  berries  encircling  smooth 
masses  of  blue-black  hair.  He  expected  to 
.see  the  modest  drooping  of  the  eyelids  pecul- 
iar to  young  ladies  Avith  long  lashes,  but  he 
was  disaj)])ointed  ;  for  Aurora  Floyd  was  look- 
ing straiglit  befoi'e  her,  neither  at  him,  nor  at 
the  lights,  nor  the  flowers,  nor  the  dancers, 
but  far  away  into  vacancy.  She  was  so 
young,  prosj)crous,  admired,  and  beloved,  that 
it  was  diflii.'ult  to  account  for  the  dim  shadow 
of  trouble  that  clouded  her  glorious  eyes. 

While  he  was  wondering  what  he  should 
say  to  her,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face,  and 
asked  him  the  sti-angest  question  he  had  ever 
heard  from  girlish  lips. 

"  Do  you  know  if  Thunderbolt  Avon  the 
Leger  '^'^  she  asked. 

He  Avas  too  mu(di  confounded  to  answer 
for  a  moment,  ami  she  continued  rather  im- 
patiently, "  They  must  have  heard  by  six 
o'clock  this  evening  in  London;  but  I  have 
asked  half  a  dozen  peo])le  here  to-night,  and 
no  one  seems  to  knoAv  anything  about  it." 

Talbot's  close-ci-ojij>ed  hair  seemed  lifted 
from  his  head  as  he  listened  to  this  terrible 
address.  Good  heavens!  Avliat  a  horrible 
Avoman  !  The  hu.ssar's  vivid  imagination  pic- 
tured the  heir  of  all  the  Raleigli  Bulstrodes 
receiving  his  infantine  impressions  from  such 
a  mother.  She  Avould  teach  him  to  I'ead  out 
of  the  Racing  CalcMidar;  she  Avonld  invent  a 
royal  alphabet  of  the  turf,  and  tell  him  that 
"])  stands  for  Derby,  old  England's  great 
race,"  and  "  E  stands  for  Epsom,  a  crack 
meeting- place,"  etc  He  told  Miss  Floyd 
that  he  had  never  ixcn  to  Doiuaster  in  his 
life,  that  he  had  never  read  a  sporting  paper, 
and  that  he  kncAv  no  more  of  Thunderbolt 
than  of  King  Cheops. 

She  looked  at  him  rather  contemptuously. 


16 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


"  Cheops  wasn't   mut-h,"  she   said  ;  "  but  he  | 
won    the    Liverpool    Autumn    Cup  in   Blink 
Bonny's  year."  • 

Talbot  Bulstrode  shuddered  afresh ;  but  a  j 
feeling  of  pity  niingk;il  with  his  horror.     "  If  I 
I  had  a  .sister,"  he  thought,  "  I  would  get  her  [ 
to  talk  to  this  miserable  girl,  and  bring  her  to 
a  sense  of  her  iniquity."' 

Aurora  said  no  more  to  the  Captain  of 
Hussars,  but  relapsed  into  the  old  far-away 
gaze  into  vacaney,  and  sat  twisting  a  brace- 
let round  and  round  upon  her  finely-modelled 
wrist.  It  was  a  diamond  bracelet,  worth  a 
couple  of  hundred  pounds,  which  had  been 
given  her  that  day  by  her  father.  He  would 
have  invested  all  his  fortune  in  Messrs.  Hunt 
and  Roskell's  cunning  handiwork  if  Aurora 
liad  sighed  for  gems  and  gewgaws.  Miss 
Floyd's  glance  fell  upon  the  glittering  orna- 
ment, and  she  looked  at  it  long  and  earnestly, 
ratlier  as  if  she  were  calculating  the  value  of 
the  stones  than  admiring  the  taste  of  the 
workmanship. 

While  Talbot  was  watching  her,  full  of 
wondering  pity  and  horror,  a  young  man 
hurried  up  to  the  spot  where  she  was  seated, 
and  remindt'd  her  of  an  engagement  for  the 
quadrille  that  was  forming.  She  looked  at 
her  tablets  of  ivory,  gold,  and  turquoise,  and 
with  a  certain  disdainful  weariness  rose  and 
took  his  arm.  Talbot  followed  her  receding 
form.  Taller  than  most  among  the  throng, 
her  queenly  head  was  not  soon  lost  sight  of. 

"  A  Cleopatra  with  a  snub  nose  two  sizes 
too  small  for  her  face,  and  a  taste  for  horse- 
flesh!" said  Talbot  Bulstrode,  ruminating 
upon  the  departed  divinity.  "  She  ought  to 
carry  a  betting-book  instead  of  those  ivory 
tablets.  How  distraile  she  was  all  the  time 
she  sat  here !  I  dare  say  she  has  made  a 
book  for  the  Leger,  and  was  calculating  bow 
much  she  stands  to  lose.  What  will  this  poor 
old  banker  do  with  her  V  put  her  into  a  mad- 
house, or  get  her  elected  a  member  of  the 
jockey  club  ?  With  her  black  eyes  and  iifty 
thousand  pounds,  she  might  lead  the  sporting 
world.  There  has  been  a  female  pope,  why 
should  there  not  be  a  female  '  Napoleon  of 
the  Turf?' " 

Later,  wdien  the  i-ustling  leaves  of  the 
trees  in  Beekenham  Woods  were  shivering 
in  that  cold  gray  hour  which  precedes  the 
advcHt  of  the  dawn,  Talbot  Bulstrode  drove 
his  friend  away  from  the  bankei-'s  lighted 
mansion.  lie  talked  of  Aurora  Floyd  during 
the  whole  of  that  long  cross-country  drive. 
He  was  merciless  to  her  follies  ;  he  ridiculed, 
he  abused,  he  sneered  at  and  condemned  her 
questionable  taste.  He  bade  Francis  Louis 
Maldon  marry  her  at  his  peril,  and  wished 
liim  joy  of  such  a  wife.  He  declared  that  'if 
he  had  sueh  a  sister  he  would  shoot  her,  un- 
less she  reformed  and  burnt  her  betting-book. 
He  worked  himself  up  into  a  savagehumor 
about  the  young  lady's  delinquencies,  and 
talked  of  her  as  if  she  had  done  him  an  un- 


pardonable injury  by  entertaining  a  taste  for 
the  turf ;  till  at  last  the  poor  meek  young  en- 
sign plucked  up  a  spirit,  and  told  his  superior 
otHcer  that  Aurora  Floyd  was  a  very  jolly 
girl,  and  a  good  girl,  and  a  perfect  lady,  and 
that  if  she  did  want  to  know  who  won  the 
Leger,  it  was  no  business  of  Captain  Bul- 
strode's,  and  that  he,  Bulstrode,  needn't  make 
such  a  howling  about  it. 

While  the  two  jnen  are  getting  to  high 
words  about  her,  Aurora  is  seated  in  her 
dressing-room,  listening  to  Lucy  Floyd's  bab- 
ble about  the  ball. 

"  There  was  never  such  a  delightful  party," 
that  young  lady  said;  "and  did  Aurora  see 
so-and-so,  and  so-and-so,  and  so-and-so?  and 
above  all,  did  she  observe  Captain  Bulstrode, 
who  had  served  all  through  the  Crimean  war, 
and  who  walked  lame,  and  was  the  son  of 
Sir  John  Walter  Raleig'u  Bulstrode,  of  Bul- 
strode Castle,  near  Camelford  V" 

Aurora  shook  her  head  with  a  weary  gest- 
ure. No,  she  hadn't  noticed  any  of  these 
people.  Poor  Lucy's  childish  talk  was  stopped 
in  a  moment. 

"  You  are  tired,  Aurora  dear,"  she  said ; 
"  how  cruel  I  am  to  worry  you!" 

Aurora  threw  her  arms  about  her  cousin's 
neck,  and  hid  her  face  upon  Lucy's  white 
shoulder. 

"  I  ara'tired,"  she  said,  "very,  very  tired." 

She  spoke  with  such  an  utterly  despairing 
weariness  in  her  tone,  that  her  gentle  cousin 
was  alarmed  by  her  words. 

"  You  are  not  unhappy,  dear  Aurora  ?" 
she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  No,  no,  only  tired.  There,  go,  Lucy. 
Good-night,  good-night." 

She  gently  pushed  her  cousin  from  the 
room,  rejected  the  services  of  her  maid,  and 
dismissed  her  also.  Then,  tired  as  she  was, 
she  removed  the  candle  from  the  dressing- 
table  to  a  desk  on  the  other  .side  of  the  room, 
and,  seating  herself  at  this  desk,  unlocked  it, 
and  took  fi'om  one  of  its  inmost  recesses  the 
soiled  pencil  scrawl  which  had  been  given 
her  a  week  before  by  the  man  who  tried  to 
sell  her  a  dog  in  Cockspur  street. 

The  diamond  bracelet,  Archibald  Floyd's 
birthday  gift  to  his  daughter,  lay  in  its  nest 
of  satin  and  velvet  upon  Aurora's  dressing- 
table.  She  took  the  morocco  case  in  her 
hand,  looked  for  a  few  moments  at  the  jewel, 
and  then  shut  the  lid  of  the  little  casket  with 
a  sharp  metallic  snap. 

"  The  tears  were  in  my  father's  eyes  when 
he  elapsed  the  bracelet  on  my  ai'm,"  she  said, 
as  she  reseated  herself  at  the  desk.  "  If  he 
could  see  me  now  !" 

She  wrai")ped  the  case  in  a  sheet  of  foolscap, 
secured  the  parcel  in  several  places  with  red 
wax  and  a  plain  seal,  and  directed  it  thus : 
"J.  C, 
Care  of  Mr.  Joseph  Green, 
Bell  Inn, 

Doncaster." 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Early  the  next  morning  Miss  Floyd  drove 
hf*r  aunt  and  cousin  iuto  Croydon,  and,  leav- 
ing them  at  a  Berlin  wool-shop,  went  alone  to 
the  post-office,  where  she  registered  and  post- 
ed this  valuable  parcel. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  F  T  K  R     T  H  K     «  A  I.  L  . 

Two  days  after  Aurora's  birthnight  festival, 
Talbot  Bulstrode's  phaeton  dashecl  once  more 
into  tlie  avenue  at  Felden  Woods.  Again 
the  captain  made  a  sacrifice  on  the  shrine  of 
friendsliip,  and  drove  Francis  Maldon  from 
Windsor  to  Beclcenham,  in  order  tliat  the 
young  cornet  miglit  make  those  an.xious  in- 
quiries about  tlie  health  of  the  ladies  of  Mr. 
Floyd's  household,  which,  by  a  pleasant  social 
fiction,  are  supposed  to  be  necessary  atler  an 
evening  of  intermittent  waltzes  and  qua- 
drilles. 

The  junior  officer  was  very  grateful  for  this 
kindness ;  for  Talbot,  though  the  best  of  fel- 
lows* was  not  much  given  to  putting  himself 
out  of  the  way  for  the  pleasure  of  other  peo- 
ple. It  wouici  have  been  far  pleasanter  to  the 
captain  to  dawdle  away  the  day  in  his  own 
rooms,  lolling  over  those  erudite'works  which 
his  brother  officers  described  by  the  generic 
title  of  "  heavy  reading,'"  or,  according  to  the 
popular  belief  of  those  hare-brained  young 
men.  employed  in  squaring  the  circle  in  the 
solitude  of  his  chamber. 

Talbot  Bulstrode  was  altogether  an  in- 
.scrutable  personage  to  his  comrades  of  the 
11th  Hussars.  His  black-letter  folios,  his  pol- 
ished mahogany  cases  of  mathematical  instru- 
ment.s,  his  proof- before -letters  engravings, 
were  the  fopperies  of  a  young  O.xonian 
rather  than  an  officer  who  had  foufjht  and 
bled  at  Inkcrmann.  The  young  men  who 
breakfasted  with  him  in  his  rooms  trem- 
bled as  they  read  the  titles  of  the  big  books 
on  the  shelves,  and  stared  helplessly  at  the 
"rim  saints  and  angular  angels  in  the  pre- 
Raphaclite  prints  upon  the  walls.  Thev  dared 
not  even  propose  to  smoke  in  those  sacred  | 
chambers,  and  were  ashamed  of  the  wet  im- 
pressions of  the  rims  of  the  Moselle  bottles  ' 
•which  they  left  upon  the  mahogany  eases.         I 

It  seemed  natural  t«  people  to  be  afraid  of  I 
Talbot  Bulstrode,  just  as  little  boys  are  I 
frightened  of  a  beadle,  a  policeman,  and  a" 
8choo!-;na.ster,  even  before  they  have  been  { 
told  the  attributes  of  these  terrible  beings,  j 
The  colonel  of  the  lUh  Hussars,  a  portly' 
gentleman,  who  rode  fifteen  stone,  and  wrote  : 
his  name  high  in  the  peerage,  was  frightened  ! 
of  Talbot.  That  cold  gray  eye  struck  a  silent  ' 
awe  into  the  hearths  of  men  and  women  with  \ 
its  straight,  penetrating  gaze,  that  alwavs  i 
seemed  to  be  telling  them  th<'y  were  found  j 
out.     The  colonel  was  afraid  to  tell  his  best  I 


stories  wlien  Talbot  was  at  the  mess-table,  for 
he  had  a  dim  consciousness  that  the  captain 
was  aware  of  the  discrepancies  in  those  bnl- 
liant  ane(;dotes,  though  that  officer  had  never 
implied  a  doubt  by"  either  look  or  cesturo. 
The  Irish  adjutant  fbi-got  to  brair  about  his 
conquests  among  the  fair  se.x  ;  the  vounwer 
men  dropped  their  voices  when  they  talked 
to  each  other  of  the  side-scenes  at  Her  Maj- 
esty's Theatn;;  and  the  cork.s  Hew  faster 
and  the  laughter  grew  louder,  when  Talbot 
left  the  room. 

The  captain  knew  that  he  was  more  re- 
spected than  beloved,  and,  like  all  proud 
men  who  repel  the  warm  feelings  of  oth.-rs  in 
utter  despite  of  themselves,  he  Avas  grieved 
and  wounded  because  his  comrades  did  not 
become  attached  to  him. 

"  Will  anybody,  out  of  all  the  millions  on 
this  wide  earth,  ever  love  me  !"  he  thoun-ht. 
"  No  one  ever  has  as  yet— not  even  my  faUier 
and  mother.     They  have  been  proud  of  me, 
but  they  have  never  loved  me.     How  manv  a 
young  ^jrofligate  has  brought  his  parents' gray 
hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave,  and  has  been 
beloved  with  the  last  heart-beat  of  those  he 
destroyed  as  I  have  never  been  in  my  life  .' 
Perhaps  my   mother   would   have  loved    me 
better  if  I  had  given  her  more  trouble;  if  1 
had  scattered  the  name  of  Bulstrode  all  over 
London  upon  post-obits  and  dishonored    ac- 
ce])tances;  if  I  had  been  drummed  out  of  my 
regiment,  and  had  walked  down  to  Cornwall 
without  shoes  or  stockings,  to  fall  at  her  feet, 
and  sob  out  my  sins  and  sorrows  in  her  lap, 
and  ask  her  to  mortgage  her  jointure  for  the 
payment  of  my   debts.     But'  I   have    never 
[  asked  anything  of  her,  dear  soul,  except  her 
j  love,  and  that  she  has  been  unable  to   give 
me.     I  suppose  it  is  because  I  do  not  know 
how  to  ask.     How   often   have   I  sat  by  her 
side  at  Bulstrode,  talking  of  all  sorts  of  in- 
different subjects,  yet  with  a  vague  vearnin'^ 
at  my  heart  to  throw  myself  upini  her  breasP, 
and  implore  of  her  to  love  and  bless  her  .son] 
buthehl  aloof  by  some  icy  barrier  that  I  have 
been    powerless   all   my  "life  to  break  down 
What  woman  has  ever  loved  me  V     Not  one. 
They  have  tried  to  marry  me  because  I  shall 
be  Sir  Talbot  Bidstrode  of  Bulstrode  Castle; 
but  how  soon  they  have  left  off  ant,'linrr  for 
the  prize,  and  shrunk  away  from  m7>  chilled 
and  disheartened  !    I  shudder  when  I  remem- 
ber  that     I    shall    be    three-and-(hirtv    next 
March,  and  that  I  have  never  been  beloved. 
1  shall  sell  out,  now  the  fighting  is  over,  for  1 
am  of  no  use  among  the  fellows  here  ;  and,  if 
any  good  little  thing  would  fall  in  love  with 
me.  I  would  marry  her  and  take  her  down  to 
Bulstrode,  to  my  mother  and  father,  and  turn 
country  gentleman." 

Talbot  Bulstrode  made  this  declaration  in 
all  .sincerity.  He  wished  that  some  good  and 
pure  creature  would  fall  in  love  with  him,  in 
order  that  he  might  marry  her.     He  wanted 


18 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


some  spontaneous  exhibition  of  innocent  feel- 
ing which  might  justify  him  in  saying  "I  am 
beloved  ! '  He  folt  little  capacity  for  loving 
on  his  own  side,  but  he  thouglit  that  he  would 
be  grateful  to  any  good  woman  who  would 
regard  him  with  disinterested  affection,  and 
that  he  would  devote  his  life  to  making  her 
happy. 

"  It  would  be  something  to  feel  that  if  I 
were  smashed  in  a  railway  accident,  or 
dropped  out  of  a  balloon,  some  one  creature 
in  this  world  would  think  it  a  lonelier  place 
for  the  lack  of  me.  I  wonder  whether  my 
children  would  love  me  V  I  dare  say  not.  I 
should  freeze  their  young  afflictions  with  the 
Latin  grammar,  and  they  would  tremble  as 
they  passed  the  door  of  my  study,  and  hush 
their  voices  into  a  Iriglitened  whisper  when 
papa  was  within  hearing." 

Talbot  Bnlstrode's  ideal  of  woman  was  some 
gentle  and  icminine  creature  crowned  with 
an  aureole  of  pale  auburn  hair;  some  timid 
soul  with  downcast  eyes,  fringed  with  golden- 
tinted  lashes;  some  shrinking  being,  as  pale 
and  jniin  as  the  mediseval  saints  in  his  pre- 
Raphaelite  engravings,  spotless  as  her  own 
white  robes,  excelling  in  all  womanly  graces 
and  accomplishments,  but  only  exhibiting 
them  in  the  narrow  circle  of  a  home. 

Perhaps  Talbot  thought  that  he  had  met 
with  his  ideal  when  he  entered  the  long 
drawing-room  at  Felden  Woods  with  Cornet 
Maldon,  on  the  seventeenth  of  September, 
1857.    . 

Lucy  Floyd  was  standing  by  an  open  piano, 
with  her  white  dress  and  pale  golden  hair 
bathed  in  a  flood  of  autumn  sunlight.  That 
sunlit  figure  came  back  to  Talbot's  memory 
long  afterward,  after  a  stormy  interval,  in 
which  it  had  been  blotted  away  and  for- 
gotten, and  the  long  drawing-room  stretched 
itself  out  like  a  picture  before  his  eyes. 

Yes,  this  was  his  ideal — tliis  graceful  girl, 
with  the  shinmiering  light  for  ever  playing 
upon  lier  hair,  and  the  motlest  droop  in  her 
white  eyelids.  But,  undemonstrative  as  usual, 
Captain  Bulstrode  seated  himself  near  the 
piano,  after  the  brief  ceremony  of  greeting, 
and  C(jntemplated  Lucy  with  grave  eyes  that 
betrayed  no  especial  admiration. 

lie  had  not  taken  much  notice  of  Lucy 
Floyd  on  the  night  of  the  ball;  indeed,  Lucy- 
was  scarcely  a  candle-light  beauty  ;  her  hair 
wanted  the  sunshine  gleaming  through  it  to 
light  up  the  golden  halo  about  her  face,  and 
the  delicate  pink  of  her  cheeks  waxed  pale  in 
the  glare  of  the  great  chandeliers. 

While  Captain  Bulstrode  was  watching 
Lucy  with  that  grave,  eoutemplative  gaze, 
trying  to  find  out  whether  she  was  in  any 
way  different  from  other  girls  he  had  known, 
and  whether  the  purity  of  lier  delicate  beauty 
was  more  than  skin  deep,  the  window  opposite 
to  him  was  darkened,  and  Aurora  Floyd  stood 
between  him  and  the  sunshine. 


Tiie  banker's  daughter  paused  on  the 
threshold  of  the  open  window,  holding  the 
collar  of  an  immense  mastiff  in  both  her 
hands,  and  looking  irresolutely  into  the 
room. 

Miss  Floyd  hated  morning  callers,  and  she 
was  debating  within  herself  whether  she  had 
been  seen,  or  whether  it  might  be  possible  to 
steal  away  unperceived. 

But  the  dog  set  up  a  big  bark,  .and  settled 
the  (uiestion. 

"  Quiet,  Bow-wow,"  she  said;  "  quiet,  quiet, 
boy." 

"  Yes,  the  dog  was  called  Bow-wow.  He 
was  twelve  years  old,  and  Aurora  had  so 
christened  him  in  her  seventh  year,  when  he 
was  a  blundering,  big-headed  pu])py,  that 
sprawled  upon  the  table  during  the  little 
girl's  lessons,  upset  ink-bottles  over  her  copy- 
books, and  ate  whole  chapters  of  PInnock's 
abridged  histories. 

The  gentlemen  rose  at  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  and  Miss  Floyd  (;anie  into  the  room 
and  sat  down  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
captaiu  and  her  cousin,  twirling  a  straw  hat 
in  her  hand  and  staring  at  her  dog,  who 
seated  himself  resolutely  by  her  chair,  knock- 
ing double  knocks  of  good  temper  upon  the 
carpet  Avith  his  big  tail. 

'Though  she  said  very  little,  and  seated  her- 
self in  a  careless  attitude  that  besj)oke  com- 
plete indifference  to  her  visitors,  Aurora's 
beauty  extinguished  poor  Lucy  as  the  rifeing 
sun  extinguishes  the  stars. 

The  thick  plaits  of  her  black  hair  made  a 
great  diadem  upon  her  low  forehead,  and 
crowned  her  an  Eastern  empress  —  an  em- 
press with  a  doubtful  nose,  it  is  true,  but  an 
empress  who  reigned  by  right  divine  of  her 
eyes  and  hair.  For  do  not  these  wonderful 
black  eyes,  which  perhaps  shine  u[)on  us  only 
once  in  a  lifetime,  in  themselves  constitute  a 
royalty? 

Talbot  Bulstrode  turned  away  i'rom  his 
ideal  to  look  at  this  dark-haired  goddess,  with 
a  coarse  straw  hat  in  her  hand  and  a  big 
mastiff's  head  lying  on  her  lap.  Again  he 
perceived  that  abstraction  in  her  manner 
which  had  puzzled  him  upon  the  night  of  the 
ball.  She  listened  to  her  visitors  politely, 
and  she  answered  them  when  they  spoke  to 
her,  but  it  seemed  to  Talbot  as  if  she  con- 
strained herself  to  attend  to  them  by  an 
effort. 

"  She  wishes  me  away,  I  dare  say,"  he! 
thought,  "  and  no  doubt  considers  me  a  '  slow! 
party'  because  I  don't  talk  to  her  of  horses 
and  dogs." 

The  captain  resumed  his  conversation  with 
Lucy.  He  Ibund  that  she  talked  exactly  as^ 
he  had  heard  other  young  ladies  talk,  that  she 
knew  all  they  knew,  and  had  been  to  the 
places  they  had  visited.  The  ground  theyi 
went  over  was  very  old  indeed,  but  Lucy' 
traversed  it  with  charming  propriety. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


19 


"She  is  a  good  little  tiling,"  Talbot  thought, 
"  and  would  make  an  admirable  wife  for  a 
country  gentleman.  I  wish  she  would  fall  in 
love  with  me." 

Lucy  told  him  of  some  excursion  in  Swit- 
zerland, where  she  had  been  during  the  pre- 
ceding autumn  with  Jier  fatlier  and  mother. 

''  And  your  cousin,"  he  asked,  "  was  she 
with  you  ?" 

"  No ;  Aurora  was  at  school  in  Paris  with 
the  Demoiselles  Lespard." 

"  Lespard  —  Lespard  !"  he  repeated  ;  "  a 
Protestant  pension  in  the  Faubourg  Saint 
Germain?  Why,  a  cousin  of  mine  is  being 
educated  there — a  Miss  Trevyllian.  Shi;  iias 
been  there  for  three  or  four  years.  Do  you 
remember  Constance  Trevyllian  at  the  De- 
moiselles Lespard,  Miss  Floyd  ?"  said  Talbot, 
addressing  himself  to  Aurora. 

"  ConstatiL-e  Trevyllian  ?  Yes,  I  remember 
her,"  answered  the  banker's  daughter. 

She  said  nothing  more,  and  for  a  few  mo- 
ments there  was  rather  an  awkward  pause. 

"  Miss  Trevyllian  is  my  cousin,"  said  the 
captain. 

"  Indeed !" 

"  I  hope  that  you  were  very  good  friends." 

"  Oh,  yes." 

She  bent  over  her  dog,  caressing  his  big 
head,  and  not  even  looking  up  as  she  spoke  of 
Mis.<;  Trevyllian.  It  seemed  as  if  the  subject 
was  utterly  indiiTerent  to  her,  and  she  dis- 
dained even  to  afl'oct  an  interest  in  it. 

Talbot  liulstrode  bit  his  lip  with  offended 
pride.  "  I  suppose  this  purse-proud  heiress 
looks  down  upon  the  Trevyllians  of  Tredeth- 
lin."  he  thought,  "  because  tliey  can  boast  of 
nothing  better  than  a  few  hun<Ired  acres  of 
barren  moorland,  .some  exhausted  tin  mines, 
and  a  pedigree  that  dates  from  the  days  of 
King  Arthur." 

Archibald  Floyd  came  into  the  drawing- 
room  while  the  olHcers  were  seated  there,  and 
bade  them  welcome  to  Felden  Woods. 

"  A  long  drive,  gentlemen,"  said  he  ;  "  your 
borses  will  want  a  rest.  Of  course  you  will 
dine  with  us.  We  shall  have  a  full  moon  to- 
night, and  you  'II  have  it  as  light  as  day  for 
your  drive  back." 

Talbot  looked  at  Francis  I^i'wis  i\laldon, 
who  was  sitting  staring  at  Aurora  with  va- 
cant, oiien-niouthcd  admiration.  The  young 
Dflicer  knew  that  the  heiress  and  her  fifty 
thou.sand  pounds  were  not  for  him  ;  but  it 
(va.s  scarcely  the  less  pleasant  to  look  at  her, 
Jiui  wish  that,  like  Ca]»tain  Piulstrode,  he  had  ' 
acen  the  eldest  son  of  a  rich  baronet.  ! 

Tlie  invitation  wa,s  accepted  by  Mr.  Mai-  ' 
ion  .is  cordially  as  it  had  been  given,  and  with  I 
ess  than  his  usual  stiffness  of  manner  on  the  ! 
)art  of  Talbot.  I 

The   luncheon-bell   rang  while   they   were  I 
bilking,  and  the  little  party  adjourned  to  the  I 
lining-room,    where    they   found   Mi-s.   Alex- 
inder  Floyd  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the  table.  I 


Talbot  sat  next  to  Lucy,  with  Mr.  Maiden 
opposite  to  them,  while  Aurora  took  her  place 
beside  her  father. 

The  old  man  was  attentive  to  his  guest.-", 
but     the    shallowest    observer     could     have 
scarcely   failed     to    notice    his   watchfulness 
of  Aurora.     It  was  ever  present  in  his  care- 
worn face,  that  tender,  anxious  glance  which 
I  turned  to  her  at  every  pause  in  the  eonver- 
j  sation.   and   could    scarcely    withdraw   itself 
!  from   her  for  the  common  courtesies  of  life. 
;  If  she  spoke,  he  listened — listened  as  if  every 
careless,    half- disdainful   word   concealed    a 
:  deeper  meaning,  which  it  was  his  task  to  di«»- 
!  cern    and   unravel.     If    she   was   silent,    he 
I  watched  her  still  more  closely,  seeking  per- 
I  haps   to   penetrate  that   gloomy   veil   which 
I  sometimes  spread   itself  over   her  liandsome 
I  face. 

Talbot  Bulstrode  was  not  so  absorbed  by 
his  conversation  with  Lucy  and  Mrs.   Alex- 
ander as  to  overlook  this  peculiarity  in  the 
father's  manner  toward  his  only  child.     He 
saw,  too,   that  when    Aurora   aildressed   the 
banker,  it  was  no  longer  with  that  listless  in- 
[  difference,  half  weariness,  half  disdain,  which 
seeYned    natural   to   her  on   other   occasions. 
!  The  eager  watihfulness  of  Archibald  Floyd 
was  in  some  measure  reHected  in  his  daugh- 
I  ter;  by  fits  and  starts,  it  is  true,  for  she  gun- 
I  erally  sank  back  into  that  moody  abstraction 
I  which   Captain   Bulstrode    had  observed  on 
I  the  night  of  the  ball;  but  still  it  was  there, 
i  the  same  feeling  as  her  father's,  though  less 
constant  and  intense  —  a  watchful,  anxious, 
half-sorrowful  affection,  which  could  scarcely 
exist  except  under  abnormal  circumslances. 
Talbot  Bulstrode  was  vexed  to  find  himself 
wondering   about    this,   and    growing    every 
moment  less  and  less  attentive  to  Lucy's  sim- 
ple talk. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  hethouglit;  "has 
she  fallen  in  love  with  some  man  whom  her 
father  has  forbidden  her  to  marry,  and  is  the 
old  man  trying  to  atone  for  his  severity  'i* 
That  *s  scarcely  likely.  A  woman  with  a 
head  and  throat  like  hers  could  scaroelv  fail 
to  be  ambitious  —  ambitious  and  revengeful, 
rather  than  over-susceptible  of  any  tender 
passion.  Did  she  lose  half  her  fortune  upon 
that  race  she  talked  to  me  about  V  I  '11  ask 
her  presently.  Perhaps  they  have  taken 
away  her  betting-bofik,  or  lamed  her  favorite 
horse,  or  shot  some  pet  dog,  to  cure  him  of 
distemper.  She  is  a  spoiled  child,  of  courFC, 
this  heiress,  and  I  dare  say  her  father  would 
try  to  get  a  copy  of  the  moon  made  for  her  if 
she  cried  for  that  jilanet." 

AfU-r  luncheon,  the  banker  took  his  guests 
into  the  gardens  that  stretched  far  away  upon 
two  sides  of  the  house  —  the  gardens  which 
poor  Eliza  Floyd  had  helped  to  plan  nineteen 
years  before. 

Talbot  Bulstrode  walked  rather  stiffly  from 
his  Crimean  wound,  but  Mrs.  Alexander  and 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


her  daughter  suited  their  pace  to  his,  while 
Aurora  walked  before  them  with  her  father 
.and  Mr.  Maldon,  and  with  the  mastiff  close  at 
her  side. 

"  Your  cousin  is  rather  proud,  is  she  not  ?" 
Talbot  asked  Lucy,  after  they  had  been  talk- 
ing of  Aurora. 

"  Aurora  proud  I  oh  no,  indeed  !  perhaps, 
if  .she  has  any  f;iult  at  all  (for  she  is  the  dear- 
est girl  that  ever  lived),  it  is  that  she  has  not 
sufficient  pride  —  I  mean  with  regard  to  ser- 
rants,  and  that  sort  of  people.  She  would 
as  soon  talk  to  one  of  those  gardeners  as  to 
you  or  me;  and  you  would  see  no  diflercnee 
m  her  manner,  except  that  per]iap,s  it  would 
be  a  little  more  cordial  to  them  than  to  us. 
The  poor  people  round  Felden  idolize  her." 

"Aui-ora  takes  after  her  mother,"  said  Mrs. 
Ale.xander;  "she  is  the  living  image  of  poor 
Eliza  Floyd." 

"  Was  Mrs.  Floyd  a  countrywoman  of  her 
husband's  ?"  Talbot  asked.  He  was  wonder- 
ing how  Aurora  came  to  have  those  great, 
brilliant  black  eyes,  and  so  much  of  the  south 
in  her  beauty. 

"No;  my  uncle's  wife  belonged  to  a  Lan- 
cashire family." 

A  Lancashire  family !  If  Talbot  Raleigh 
Bulstrode  could  have  known  that  the  family 
name  was  Prodder;  that  one  member  of  the 
haughty  house  had  employed  his  youth  in  the 
pleasing  occupations  of  a  cabin-boy,  making 
thick  coffee  and  toasting  greasy  herrings  for 
the  matutinal  meal  of  a  surly  captain,  and 
receiving  more  corporal  correction  from  the 
sturdy  toe  of  his  master's  boot  than  sterling 
copper  coin  of  the  realm  —  if  he  could  have 
known  that  the  great  aunt  of  this  disdainful 
creature,  walking  before  him  in  all  the  maj- 
e.sty  of  her  beauty,  had  once  kept  a  chami- 
!er's  shop  in  an  obscure  street  in  Liverpool, 
and,  for  aught  any  one  but  the  banker  knew, 
kept  it  still !  But  this  was  a  knowledge 
which  had  wisely  been  kept  even  from  Au- 
s-ora  herself,  who  knew  little,  except  that, 
despite  of  having  been  born  with  that  alle- 
gorical silver  spoon  in  her  mouth,  she  was 
poorer  than  other  girls,  inasmuch  as  she  was 
iiiotherless. 

Mrs.  Alexander,  Lucy,  and  the  captain 
overtook  the  others  upon  a  rustic  bridge, 
where  Talbot  stopped  to  rest.  Aurora  was 
leaning  over  the  rough  wooden  balustrade, 
looking  lazily  at  the  water. 

"  Dili  your  favorite  win  the  race,  Miss 
Floyd '?"  he  asked,  as  he  watched  the  effect 
of  her  profile  against  the  sunlight :  not  a 
very  beautiful  profile  certainly,  but  for  the 
Jong  black  eyelashes,  and  the  radiance  under 
them,  which  their  darkest  shadows  could 
never  hide. 

"  Which  favorite  ?"  she  said. 

"  Tiie  horse  you  spoke  to  me  about  the 
other  night  —  Thunderbolt ;  did  he  win  '?" 

"  No.'' 


"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it." 

Aurora  looked  up  at  him,  reddening  angri- 
ly.    "  Why  soV"  she  asked. 

"  Because  I  thought  you  were  interested  in 
his  su(M'ess." 

As  Talbot  said  this,  he  observed,  for  the 
first  time,  that  Ai'chibald  Floyd  was  near 
enough  to  hear  their  conversation,  and,  fur- 
thermore, that  he  was  regarding  his  daughter 
with  even  more  than  his  usual  watchfulness. 

"Do  not  talk  to  me  of  racing;  it  annoys 
papa,"  Aurora  said  to  the  caj)tain,  dropping 
her  voice.  Talbot  bowed.  '"  I  was  right, 
then,"  he  thought;  "the  turf  is  the  skeleton. 
I  dare  say  Miss  Floyd  has  bceu  doing  hor 
best  to  drag  her  father's  name  into  the  Ga- 
zette, and  yet  he  evidently  loves  her  to  dis- 
traction ;  while  I  — "  There  was  something 
so  very  pharisaical  in  the  speech  that  Cap- 
tain Bulstrode  would  not  even  finish  it  men- 
tally. He  was  thinking,  "  Tiiis  girl,  who, 
perhaps,  has  been  the  cause  of  nights  of 
sleepless  anxiety  and  days  of  devouring  (;are, 
is  tenderly  beloved  by  her  iiither,  while  I, 
who  am  a  model  to  all  the  elder  sons  of  Eng- 
land, have  never  been  loved  in  my  life." 

At  half-past  six  the  great  bell  at  Felden 
Woods  rang  a  clamorous  peal  tliat  went  shiv- 
ering above  the  trees,  to  tell  the  country-side 
that  the  family  were  going  to  dress  for  din- 
ner;  and  another  peal  at  seven  to  tell  the 
villagers  round  Beckenham  and  West  Wick- 
ham  that  Maister  Floyd  and  his  houfchokl 
were  going  to  dine ;  but  not  altogether  an 
empty  or  discordant  peal,  for  it  told  the  hun- 
gry poor  of  broken  victuals  and  rich  and 
delicate  meats  to  be  had  almost  for  asking  in 
the  servants'  ofHces  —  shreds  of  fricandeaux 
and  patches  of  dainty  preparations,  quartei"s 
of  chickens  and  carcasses  of  pheasants,  which 
would  have  gone  to  fatten  the  pigs  for  Christ- 
mas but  for  Archibald  Floyd's  strict  com- 
mands that  all  should  be  given  to  those  who 
chose  to  come  for  it. 

Mr.  Floyd  and  his  visitors  did  not  leave  the 
gardens  till  after  the  ladies  h.ad  retired  to- 
dress.  The  dinner-party  was  very  animated, 
for  Alexander  Floyd  drove  down  from  the 
city  to  join  his  wife  and  daughter,  bringing 
with  him  the  noisy  boy  who  was  just  going  to 
Eton,  and  who  was  passionately  attached  to 
his  cousin  Aurora;  and  whether  it  was  owing 
to  the  influence  of  this  young  gentleman,  or 
to  that  fitfulness  which  seemed  a  part  of  her 
nature,  Talbot  Bulstrode  could  not  discover, 
but  certain  it  was  that  the  dark  cloud  melted 
away  from  Miss  Floyd's  face,  and  she  aban- 
doned herself  to  the  joyousness  of  the  hour 
with  a  radiant  grace  that  reminded  her 
father  of  the  night  when  Eliza  Percival 
played  Lady  Teazel  for  the  last  time,  and 
took  her  farewell  of  the  stage  in  the  little 
Lancashire  theatre. 

It.  needed  but  this  change  in  his  daughter 
to  make  Archibald  Floyd  thoroughly  happy. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


•21 


Aurora's  smiles  seemed  to  shed  a  revivifyina; 
influence  upon  the.  whole  circle.  The  ice 
melted  awaj-,  for  the  sun  had  broken  out,  and 
the  winter  was  gone  at  last.  Talbot  Bulstrode 
bewildered  his  brain  by  trying  to  discover 
why  it  was  that  this  woman  was  such  a  peer- 
less and  fascinating  creature.  Whv  it  was 
that,  argue  as  he  would  against  the  fact,  he 
was  nevertheless  allowing'  himself  to  be  be- 
witched by  this  black-eyed  siren  —  freely 
drinking  of  that  cup  of  hniitf  which  she  pre- 
sented to  him,  and  rapidly  becoming  intoxi- 
cated. 

•'  I  could  almost  fall  in  love  with  mv  fair- 
haired  ideal,"  he  thought,  "but  I  can  not  help 
admiring  this  extraordinary  girl.     She  is  like 
Mrs.  Nisbettiu  her  zcnith'of  fame  and  beau- 
ty;   she  is  like   Cleoj)atra  s-aih'ng  down  tlie 
Cydnus;   she    is   like    Nell    Gwvnue    sellino- | 
oranges;  she  is  like  Lola  Montt'z  giving  bat"-  j 
tie    to   the   Bavarian    students;    she    is   like  I 
Charlotte  Corday  with  the  knife  in  her  hand,  ' 
standing  behind  the  friend  of  the  people  in 
his  bath  ;  slie  is  like  everything  that  is  beau- 
tiful, and  strange,  and  wicked',  and  unwom- 
anly, and  bewitching;  and  she  is  just  the  sort 
of  creature  that  many   a  fool  would   fall   in 
love  with." 

He  put  the  length  of  the   room  between 
himself  and   the  enchantress,   and    took    his 
seat    by    the   grand    piano,    at    which    Lucy 
Floyd  was  jjlaying  slow  harmom'ous  sympho- 
nies of  Beethoven.     The   drawing-room   at 
Felden   Woods  was  so  long  that,  seatoil   by 
this  piano.  Captain  Bulstrode  seemed  to  look 
back  at  the  merry  group  about  the  heiress  as 
ho  might  have  looked  at  a  scene  on  the  stage 
from    the   back    of   the    bo.xes.      lie    almost 
wished  for  an  opera-glass  as  he  watrhed  Au- 
rora's graceful  gestures  and  the  j.lay  of  her 
sparkling  eyes;  and  then,  turning  to  tlie  piano, 
he  listened  to  the  drowsy  music,  and  contem-  i 
plated  Lucy's  face,  marvellously  fair  in  the  I 
light  of  that  full   moon  of  which  Archibald  | 
Flovd  had  spoken,  the  glory  of  which,  stream-  i 
ing  in  from  an  open  window,  put  out  the  dim  I 
wax  candles  on  the  piano.  I 

All  that  Aurora's  beauty  most  lacked  was  ' 
richly  possessed  by  Lucy. '  Delieacv  of  out-  i 
line,  perfection  of  feature,  jmrity  of  tint,  all  j 
were  there;  but,  while  one  liace  daz/led  you  j 
by  its  shiniiig  splendor,  the  other  impressed  i 
yon  only  with  a  feeble  sense  of  its  charms,  j 
slow  to  come,  and  quick  to  pass  away.  There  ! 
ire  so  many  Lucys,  but  so  few  Aurora,s;  and  i 
while  you  never  could  be  critical  with  the  ' 
sue,  you  were  merciless  in  your  scrutinvof| 
;he  other.  Talbot  Bulstrode'was  attracted  to  j 
Lucy  by  a  vague  notion  that  she  was  just  the  i 
jood  and  timid  creature  who  was  destined  to 
liake  him  hanpy;  but  he  looked  at  her  as  | 
ralmly  as  if  she  had  been  a  statue,  and  was  : 
is  fully  aware  of  her  d.^fects  as  a  sculptor  ! 
ivho  criticises  the  work  of  a  rival.  ! 

But  she  was  oxactlv  the  sort  of  woman  to  ' 


I  make  a  good  wife.     She  had  been  educated 
I  to  that  end  by  a  careful  mother.     Purity  and 
;  goodne.'is  had  wat<.-hed  over  her  and  hemmed 
i  her  in  from  the  cradle.     She  had  never  seen 
:  unseemly  sights,  or  heard  unseemly  soundn. 
I  She  was  as  ignorant  as  a  baby  of  all"  the  vices 
I  and  horrors  of  this  big  world.     She  was  ladv- 
like,  accomplished,  well-informed;  and  if  there 
were  a  groat  many   others  of  precisely  the 
same  type  of  graceful  womanhood,  it  was  cer- 
tainly the  highest  type,  and  the  holiest,  and 
the  best. 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  Captain  Bul- 
strode's  phaeton  was  brought  round  to  the 
flight  of  steps  in  fi-ont  of  the  great  doors,  the 
little  party  assembled  on  the  terrace  to  see 
the  two  officers  depart,  and  the  banker  told 
his  guests  how  he  liope<l  this  visit  to  Felden 
would  be  theibeginning  of  a  lasting  acquaint- 
ance. 

"I  am  going  to  take  Aurora  and  my  niece 
to  Brighton  for  a  month  or  so,"  he  said,  as 
he  shook  hands  with  the  cajttaiu,  "but  on 
our  retiu-n  you  must  let  us  see  you  as  often 
as  j)ossible." 

Talbot  bowed,  and  stammered  his  thanks 
j  for  the  banker's  cordiality.  Aurora  and  her 
I  cousin,  Percy  Floyd,  the  young  Etonian,  had 
pone  down  the  bteps,  and  were  admiring 
j  Captain  Bulstrode's  thorough-bred  bays,  and 
j  the  captain  was  not  a  little"  distracted 'by  the 
j  picture  the  group  made  in  the  moonlight. 
I  He  never  forgot  that  picture.  Aurora, 
I  with  her  coronet  of  pbits  dead  black  against 
j  the  purple  air,  and  her  silk  dress  shimmering 
j  in  the  uncertain  ligi)t,  the  delicate  head  of 
I  the  bay  horse  visible  above  her  shoulder,  and 
j  her  ringed  white  hands  caressing  the  animar.s 
!  slender  ears,  while  the  purblind  old  masfiQ", 
I  vaguely  jealous,  whined  complainingly  at  her 
side. 

How  marvellous  is  the  sympathy  which  ex- 
ists between  some  people  and  the  brute  crea- 
tion! I  think  that  horses  and  dogs  under- 
stood every  word  that  Aurora  saiil  to  them  — 
that  they  worshippc(.l  her  from  the  dim  depths 
of  their  inarticulate  souls,  and  would  have 
willingly  gone  to  death  to  do  her  .service. 
Talbot  observed  all  this  with  an  uneasy  sense 
of  bewilderment. 

"  I  wonder  whether  these  creatures  are 
wiser  than  we  V"  he  thought;  "  do  they  rec- 
ognize some  higher  attributes  in  this  girl 
than  we  can  perceive,  and  worship  their  sub- 
lime presence  ?  If  this  terrible  woman,  with 
her  unfeminine  tastes  and  mysteiious  propen- 
sities, were  mean,  or  cowai-dly,  or  false,  or 
impure,  I  do  not  think  that  'mastiff  would 
love  her  as  he  does;  I  do  not  think  my  thor- 
ough-breds  would  let  her  hands  meddfe  with 
their  bridles;  the  dog  would  snarl,  and  the 
horses  would  bite,  as  .such  animals  used  to  do 
in  those  remote  old  days  when  they  recoornizcd 
witchcraft  and  evil  spirits,  and"  were  con- 
vulsed  by  the   pi-cst-nce  of  the   uncanny.      1 


22 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


dare  say  this  Miss  Floyd  is  a  good,  generous- 
hearted  creature  —  the  sort  of  person  fast 
men  would  call  a  glorious  girl  —  but  as  well- 
read  in  the  Racing  Calendar  and  Ruff's 
Guide  as  other  ladies  in  Miss  Yonge's  novels. 
I  'm  really  sorry  for  her." 


CHAPTER  V. 

J  O  II  N      M  E  L  L  I  S  H  . 

The  house  which  the  banker  hired  at  Brigh- 
ton for  the  month  of  October  was  perched 
hiffh  up  on  the  East  Cliif,  towering  loftily 
above  the  wind -driven  waves;  the  rugged 
coast  of  Dieppe  was  dimly  visible  from  tl\e 
upper  windows  in  the  clear  autumn  mornings, 
and  the  Chain  Pier  looked  like  a  .strip  of 
ribbon  below  the  cliff — a  pleasanter  situation, 
to  my  mind,  than  those  level  terraces  toward 
tlie  Avest,  from  the  windows  of  which  the  sea 
appears  of  small  extent,  and  the  horizon  with- 
in half  a  mile  or  so  of  the  Parade. 

Before  Mr.  Floyd  took  his  daughter  and 
her  cousin  to  Brighton,  he  entered  into  an 
arrangement  which  he  thought,  no  doubt,  a 
very  great  evidence  of  his  wisdom ;  this  was 
the  engagement  of  a  lady,  who  was  to  be  a 
compound  governess,  companion,  and  chap- 
eron to  Aurora,  who,  as  her  aunt  said,  was 
.sadly  in  .need  of  .some  accomplished  and 
watchful  person,  whose  care  it  would  be  to 
train  and  prune  those  exuberant  branches  of 
her  nature  which  had  been  suffered  to  grow 
as  they  would  from  her  infancy.  The  beau- 
tiful shrub  was  no  longer  to  trail  its  wild 
stems  along  the  ground,  or  shoot  upward  to 
the  blue  skies  at  its  own  sweet  will ;  it  was  to 
be  trimmed,  and  clipped,  and  fastened  primly 
to  the  stony  wall  of  society  with  cruel  nails 
and  galling  strips  of  cloth.  In  other  words, 
an  advertisement  was  inserted  in  the  Times 
newspaper,  setting  forth  that  a  lady  by  birth 
and  education  was  required  as  finishing  gov- 
erness and  companion  in  the  hou.sehold  of  a 
gentleman  to  whom  salary  was  no  object, 
provided  the  aforesaid  lady  v/as  perfect  mis- 
tress of  all  tlie  accomplishments  under  the 
sun,  and  was  altogether  such  an  exceptional 
and  extraordinary  being  as  could  only  exist 
in  the  advertising  columns  of  a  popular  jour- 
nal. 

But  if  the  Avorld  had  been  filled  with  ex- 
ceptional beings,  Mr.  Floyd  could  scarcely 
have  reeeived  more  answei-s  to  his  advertise- 
ment than  came  pelting  in  upon  the  unhappy 
little  postmaster  at  Beckenham.  The  man 
had  serious  thoughts  of  hiring  a  cart  in  which 
to  convey  the  letters  to  Feldcn.  If  the  banker 
had  advertised  for  a  wife,  and  had  stated  the 
amount  of  his  income,  he  could  scarcely  have 
had  more  answers.  It  seemed  as  if  the  female 
population  of  London,  with  one  accord,  was 
seized  with  the  desire  to  improve  the  mind 


and  form  the  manners  of  the  daughter  of  the 
gentleman  to  whom  terms  were  no  object. 
Officers*  widows,  clergymen's  widows,  lawyers' 
and  merchants'  widows,  daughters  of  gentle-  i 
men  of  high  family  but  reduced  means,  or-  | 
phan  daughters  of  all  sorts  of  noble  and  dis- 
tinguished people,  declared  themselves  each 
and  every  one  to  be  the  person  who,  out  of  all 
living  creatures  upon  this  earth,  was  best 
adapted  for  the  post.  Mrs.  Alexander  Floyd 
selected  six  letters,  threw  the  rest  into  the 
waste-paper  basket,  ordered  the  banker's  car- 1 
riage,  and  drove  into  town  to  see  the  six 
writers  thereof.  She  was  a  practical  and 
energetic  woman,  and  she  put  the  six  appli- 
cants througli  their  facings  so  severely  that 
when  she  returned  to  Mr.  Floyd  it  was  to 
announce  that  only  one  of  them  was  good  for 
anything,  and  that  she  was  coming  down  to 
Felden  Woods  the  next  day. 

The  chosen  lady  was  the  widow  of  an  en- 
sign who  had  died  within  six  months  of  his 
marriage,  and  about  an  hour  and  a  half  before 
he  would  have  succeeded  to  some  enormous 
pi-operty,  the  particulars  of  which  were  never 
rightly  understood  by  the  friends  of  his  unfor- 
tunate relict.  But,  vague  as  the  story  might 
be,  it  was  quite  clear  enough  to  establish  Mrs. 
Walter  Powell  in  life  as  a  disappointed  wom- 
an. She  was  a  woman  with  straight  light 
hair,  and  a  lady-like  droop  of  the  head  —  a 
woman  who  had  left  school  to  marry,  and, 
after  six  months  wedded  life,  had  gone  back 
to  the  same  school  as  instructress  of  the  junior 
pupils  —  a  Avoman  whose  whole  existence  had 
been  spent  in  teaching  and  being  taught ; 
who  had  exercised  in  her  earlier  years  a  spe- 
cies of  hand-to-mouth  tuition,  teaching  in  the 
morning  that  which  she  learned  over  night; 
who  had  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  improv- 
ing herself;  who  had  grown  mechanically  pro- 
ficient as  a  musician  and  an  artist,  who  had  a 
certain  parrot-like  skill  in  foreign  languages, 
who  had  read  all  the  books  incumbent  upon 
her  to  read,  and  who  knew  all  things  impera- 
tive for  her  to  know,  and  who,  beyond  all 
this,  and  outside  the  boundary  of  the  school- 
room wall,  was  ignorant,  and  soulless,  and 
low-minded,  and  vulgar.  Aurora  swallowed 
the  bitter  pill  as  best  she  might,  and  acce})ted 
Mrs.  Powell  as  the  person  chartered  for  her 
improvement  —  a  kind  of  ballast  to  be  flung 
into  the  wandering  bark,  to  steady  its  erratic 
course,  and  keep  it  off  rocks  and  quicksands. 

"  I  must  put  up  with  her,  Lucy,  I  suppose," 
she  said,  "and  I  must  consent  to  be  improved 
and  formed  by  the  poor,  faded  creature.  I 
wonder  whethcu-  she  will  be  like  Miss  Drum- 
mond,  who  used  to  let  me  off  from  my  lessons 
and  read  novels  while  I  ran  wild  in  the  gar- 
dens and  stables.  I  can  put  up  with  her, 
Lucy,  as  long  as  I  have  you  with  me ;  but  I 
think  I  should  go  mad  if  I  were  to  be  chained 
up  alone  with  that  grim,  pale-faced  watch- 
dog." 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


SS 


Mr.  Floyd  and  his  family  drove.«from  Fcl- 
den  to  Brigliton  in  the  banker's  roomy  trav- 
elling carriage,  with  Aurora's  maid  in  the 
rumble,  a  pile  of  imperials  upon  the  roof,  and 
Mrs.  Powell,  with  her  young  charges,  in  the 
interior  of  the  vehicle.  Mrs.  Ale.vander  liad 
gone  back  to  Fulliam,  having  done  her  duty, 
as  she  considered,  in  securing  a  protectress 
for  Aurora ;  but  Lucy  was  to  stay  with  her 
cousin  at  Brighton,  and  to  ride  with  her  on, 
the  downs.  Tiie  saddle-horses  had  gone  down 
the  day  before;  with  Aurora's  groom,  a  gray- 
haired  and  rather  surly  old  fellow  who  had 
servtMl  Archibald  Flovd  for  tliirty  years;  and 
the  mastiif  called  l^ow-wow  travelled  in  the 
carriage  with  liis  mistress. 

About  a  week  after  the  arrival  at  Brighton, 
Aurora  and  her  cousin  were  walking  tonfcther 
on  the  West  Cliff,  when  a  gentleman  with  a 
stifl'  leg  mse  from  a  bench  U{)on  which  he  had 
been  seated  listening  to  the  band,  and  slowly 
advance<l  to  them.  Lucy  dropped  her  eyelids 
with  a  faint  blush,  but  Aurora  held  out  her 
hand  in  answer  to  Captain  Bulstrode's  salute. 

"1  thought  [  should  l)e  sure  to  meet  you 
down  here.  Miss  FIoy<l,"  he  said.  "  I  only 
came  this  morning,  and  I  was  going  to  call  at 
Folthorpe's  for  your  papa's  address.  Is  he 
quite  well  ?" 

"Quite  —  yes,  that  is  —  pretty  well."  A 
shadow  stole  over  her  face  as  she  spoke.  It 
wa.s  a  wonderful  face  for  fitful  lights  and 
shades.  "  But  we  did  not  expect  to  see  you 
at  Brighton,  Captain  Bulstroile ;  we  thought 
your  regiment  was  still  quartered  at  Wind- 
sor." 

"  Yes,  my  regiment — that  is,  the  Eleventh 
is  still  at  Windsor;  but  I  have  sold  out." 

'*  Sold  out !''  Both  Aurora  and  her  cousin 
opcjied  their  eyes  at  this  intelligence. 

•'Yes;  I  was  tired  of  the  army.  It  's  dull 
work  now  tiie  fighting  is  all  over.  I  might 
have  exclianged  and  gone  to  India,  certain- 
ly," he  added,  as  if  in  answer  to  some  argu- 
ment of  his  own ;  "  but  I  'm  getting  middle- 
aged,  and  I  am  tired  of  roaming  about  the 
world.' 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  India,"  said  Aurora, 
looking  seaward  as  she  spoke. 

"  You,  Aurora !  but  why  ?"  exclaimed 
Lucy. 

"  Because  I  hate  England." 

"  I  thought  it  was  France  yon  disliked  ?" 

"  I  hate  them  both.  What  i.-(  the  use  of 
this  big  world  if  we  are  to  stop  for  ever  in  one 
place,  chained  to  one  .set  of  i<leas,  fettered  to 
one  narrow  circle  of  people,  seeing  and  hear- 
ing of  the  persons  we  li.ate  for  ever  and  ever, 
and  uucable  to  get  away  from  the  odious  sound 
of  their  names?  I  should  like  to  turn  female 
mis.sionarv,  and  go  to  the  (rentre  of  Africa 
with  Dr.  lyivingstone  and  his  family  —  and  I 
would  go  if  it  w.as  n't  for  papa." 

Poor  Lucy  stared  at  her  cousin  in  helpless 
amazement.     Talbot  Bulstrode  found  liim.s^lf 


falling  back  into  that  state  of  bewilderment 
in  which  this  girl  always  threw  him.  What 
did  she  mean,  this  heiress  of  nineteen  years 
of  age,  by  her  fits  of  despondency  and  out- 
bursts of  bitterness?  Was  it  not  perhaps, 
after  all,  only  an  affectation  of  singularity? 

Aurora  looked  at  him  with  her  brightest 
smile  while  he  was  asking  himself  this  <|ues- 
tion.  "  You  will  come  and  see  papa  ?"  she 
said. 

Captain  Bulstrode  declared  that  he  desired 
no  greater  happiness  tlian  to  pay  his  respocta 
to  Mr.  Floyd,  in  token  whereof  he  walked 
with  the  young  ladies,  toward  the  East  Cliff. 

From  that  morning  the  ollicer  became  a 
constant  visitor  at  the  banker's.  He  ])layed 
civess  with  Lucy,  accompanied  her  on  the 
piano  when  she  sang,  assisted  her  with  valu- 
able hints  when  she  painted  in  water- colors, 
jiut  in  light*  here,  and  glimpses  of  sky  there, 
deepened  autumnal  browns,  and  intensified 
horizon  i)urples,  and  made  himself  altogether 
uscfnl  to  the  young  lady,  who  was,  as  we 
know,  accomplished  in  all  lady-like  arts.  Mrs. 
Powell,  seated  in  one  of  the  windows  of  the 
pleasant  drawing-room,  shed  the  benignant 
light  of  her  faded  countenance  and  pale  blue 
eye.s  upon  the  two  young  people,  and  repre- 
sented all  the  proprieties  in  her  own  person. 
Aurora,  when  the  weather  prevented  her 
riding,  occupied  herself  more  restlessly  than 
profilablj"  by  taking  up  books  and  tossing 
them  down,  pulling  Bow-wow's  ears,  staring 
out  of  the  windows,  drawing  caricatures  of 
the  promenaders  on  the  diif,  and  dragging 
out  a  wonderful  little  watch,  with  a  bunch  of 
dangling  inexplicable  golden  absurdities,  to 
see  what  o'clock  it  was. 

Talbot  Bulstrode,  while  leaning  over  Lucy's 
piano  or  drawing-board,  or  pondering  about 
the  next  move  of  his  queen,  had  ample  leisure 
to  watch  the  movements  of  Miss  Floyd,  and 
to  be  shocked  at  the  purposeless  manner  in 
which  that  young  lady  spent  the  rainy  morn- 
ings. Sometimes  he  saw  her  poi-ing  over 
Bell's  Life,  much  to  the  hoiror  of  j\Irs.  Walter 
Powell,  who  had  a  vague  idea  of  the  iniijuitous 
proceeiiings  recited  in  that  terrible  journal, 
but  who  was  afraid  to  stretch  her  authority  so 
far  as  to  forbid  its  perusal. 

Mrs.  Powell  looked  with  silent  ap)irobation 
upon  the  growing  familiarity  between  gentle 
Lucy  Floyd  and  the  captain.  She,  had  feared 
at  fir.st  that  Talbot  was  nn  admirer  of  Auro- 
ra's; but  the  manner  of  tin;  two  soon  dispelled 
her  alarm.  Nothing  could  be  more  cordral 
than  Miss  Floyd's  treatment  of  the  ofiicer ; 
but  she  dis[)layed  the  same  indilferenee  to 
him  that  .she  did  to  everything  else  except 
her  dog  and  her  father.  Was  it  possible  that 
wellnigli  perfect  face  ami  those  haughty  graces 
had  no  charm  for  the  banker's  daughter? 
Could  it  be  that  she  could  spend  hour  after 
hour  in  the  society  of  the  liandsomest  and 
most  aristocratic  man  hhe  had  ever  met,  and 


24 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


yet  be  as  heart -whole  as  when  the  acquaint- 
ance began  ?  There  was  one  person  in  the 
little  party  who  was  for  ever  asking  that 
question,  and  never  able  to  answer  it  to  her 
own  satisfaction,  and  that  person  was  Lucy 
Fioj'd.  Poor  Lucy  Floyd,  who  was  engaged, 
night  and  day,  in  mentally  playing  that  old 
German  game  which  Faust  and  Margaret 
played  together  with  the  full-blown  rose  in 
•the  garden — "  He  loves  me  —  loves  me  not !" 

Mrs.  Walter  Powell's  shallow- sighted  blue 
eyes  miglit  behold  in  Lucy  Captain  Bulstrode's 
attraction  to  the  East  Clift",  but  Lucy  herself 
knew  better — bitterly,  cruelly  better. 

"  Captain  Bulstrode's  attentions  to  Miss 
Lucy  Floyd  were  most  evident,"  Mrs.  Powell 
said  one  day  when  the  caf)tain  left,  after  a 
long  morning's  music,  and  singing,  and  chess. 
How  Lucy  hated  the  prim  phrase !  None 
knew  so  well  as  she  the  value  of  those  "  at- 
tentions." They  had  been  at  Brighton  six 
weeks,  and  for  the  last  five  the  captain  had 
been  with  them  nearly  every  morning.  He 
had  ridden  with  them  on  the  downs,  and 
driven  with  them  to  the  Dike,  and  lounged 
beside  them  listening  to  the  band,  and  stood 
behind  them  in  their  box  at  the  pretty  little 
theatre,  and  crushed  with  them  into  the  Pa- 
vilion to  hear  Grisi,  and  Mario,  and  Alboni, 
and  poor  Bosio.  He  had  attended  them 
through  the  wliole  round  of  Brighton  amuse- 
ments, and  had  never  seemed  weai-y  of  their 
companionship.  But  for  all  this,  Lucy  knew 
what  the  last  leaf  upon  tite  rose  would  tell 
her  when  the  many  petals  should  be  plucked 
away,  and  the  poor  stem  be  left  bare.  She 
knew  how  often  he  forgot  to  turn  over  the 
leaf  in  the  Beethoven  sonatas,  how  often  he 
put  streaks  of  green  into  a  horizon  that 
should  have  been  purple,  and  touched  up  the 
trees  in  her  foreground  with  rose -pink,  and 
suffered  himself  to  be  ignominiously  check- 
mated from  sheer  inattention;  and  gave  her 
wandering,  random  answers  when  she  spoke 
to  him.  She  knew  how  restless  he  was  when 
Aurora  read  Bell's  Life,  and  how  the  very 
crackle  of  the  newspaper  made  him  wince 
with  nervous  pain.  She  knew  how  tender 
lie  was  of  the  purblind  mastiff,  how  eager  to 
be  fciends  with  him,  how  almost  sycophantic 
in  his  attentions  to  the  big,  stately  animal. 
Lucy  knew,  in  short,  that  which  Talbot  as 
yet  did  not  know  himself — she  knew  that  he 
was  fast  falling  head  over  heels  in  love  with 
her  cousin,  and  she  had,  at  the  same  time,  a 
vague  idea  that  he  would  much  rather  have 
fallen  in  love  with  herself,  and  that  he  was 
blindljr  struggling  with  the  growing  passion. 

It  Avas  so;  be  was  falling  in  love  with  Au- 
rora. The  more  he  protested  against  her,  the 
more  determinedly  he  exaggerated  her  follies, 
and  argued  witli  himself  upon  the  folly  of  lov- 
ing her,  so  much  the  more  surely  did  he  love 
her.  The  viry  battle  he  was  fighting  kept 
her  for  ever  in  his  mind,  until  he  grew  the 


veriest  skve  of  the  lovely  vision  which   he 
only  evoked  in  order  to  endeavor  to  exorcise. 

"  How  could  he  take  her  down  to  Bulstrode, 
and  introduce  her  to  his  father  and  mother?" 
he  thought;  and  at  the  thought  she  appeared 
to  him  illuminating  the  old  Cornish  mansion 
by  the  radiance  of  her  beauty,  fascinating  his 
father,  bewitching  his  mother,  riding  across 
the  moorland  on  her  thorough-bred  mare,  and 
driving  all  the  parish  mad  with  admiration  of 
her. 

He  felt  that  his  visits  to  Mr.  Floyd's  house 
were  fast  compromising  him  in  the  ey^i^  of  iti! 
inmates.  Sometimes  lie  felt  himself  bound 
in  honor  to  make  Lucy  an  offer  of  his  hand ; 
sometimes  he  argued  that  no  one  had  any 
right  to  consider  his  attentions  more  particu- 
lar to  one  than  to  the  other  of  the  young 
ladies.  If  he  had  known  of  that  weary  game 
which  Lucy  was  for  ever  mentally  jjlayiiig 
with  the  imaginary  rose,  I  am  sure  he  would 
not  have  lost  an  hour  in  proposing  to  her;  but 
Mrs.  Alexander's  daughter  had  been  iar  too 
well  educated  to  betray  one  emotion  of  her 
heart,  and  she  bore  her  girlish  agonies,  and 
concealed  her  hourly  tortures,  with  the  (juiet 
patience  common  to  these  simple,  womanly 
martyrs.  She  knew  that  the  last  leaf  must 
soon  be  plucked,  and  the  sweet  pain  of  uncer- 
tainty be  for  ever  ended. 

Heaven  knows  how^  long  Talbot  Bulstrode 
might  have  done  battle  with  his  growing  pas- 
sion had  it  not  been  for  an  event  wliich  put . 
an  end  to  his  indecision,  and  made  him  des- 
perate. This  event  was  the  appearance  of  a 
rival. 

He  was  walking  with  Aurora  and  Lucy 
upon  the  West  Cliff  one  afternoon  in  Novem- 
ber, when  a  mail  phaeton  and  pair  suddenly 
drew  up  against  the  railings  that  separated 
them  from  the  road,  and  a  big  man,  with  hu<5e 
masses  of  Scotch  plaid  twisted  about  his  waist 
and  shoulders,  sprang  out  of  the  vehicle, 
splashing  the  mud  upon  his  legs,  and  rushed 
up  to  Talbot,  taking  off  his  hat  as  he  ap- 
proached, and  bowing  apologetically  to  the 
ladies. 

"  Wiiy,  Bulstrode,"  he  said,  "  who  on  earth 
would  have  thought  of  seeing  you  here  ?  I 
heard  you  were  in  India,  man;  but  what  have 
you  done  to  your  leg  V" 

He  was  so  breathless  with  hurry  and  excite- 
ment that  he  was  utterly  indifferent  to  punc- 
tuation, and  it  seemed  as  much  as  he  could  do 
to  keep  silence  while  Talbot  introduced  him 
to  the  ladies  as  Mr.  Mellish,  an  old  friend  and 
school-fellow.  The  stranger  stared  with  such 
open  -  mouthed  admii-ation  at  Miss  Floyd's 
black  eyes  that  the  captain  turned  round 
upon  him  almost  savagely  as  he  asked  what 
had  brought  him  to  Brighton. 

"The  hunting-season,  my  boy.  Tired  of 
Yorkshire ;  know  every  field,  ditch,  hedge, 
pond,  sunk  fence,  and  scrap  of  timber  in  the 
three  Ridings.     I  'm  staying  at  the  Bedford ; 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


26 


I  'vc  got  my  stud  with  me — give  you  a  mount 
to-morrow  morning  if  you  like.  Harriers 
meet  at  eleven  —  Dike  Road.  I  've  a  gray 
tliat  '11  suit  you  to  a  nicety — carry  my  weight, 
and  as  easy  to  sit  as  your  arm-chair." 

Talbot  liatcd  his  friend  for  talking  of  horses ; 
he  felt  a  jealous  terror  of  him.  This,  perhaps, 
was  the  sort  of  man  whose  society  would  ba 
agreeable  to  Aurora  —  tiiis  big,  empty-hw\iled 
Yorkshireman,  with  his  babble  about  his  stud 
and  hunting -appointments.  Rut,  turtiing 
sharply  round  to  scrutinize  Miss  Floyd,  he 
was  gratified  to  find  that  young  lady  looking 
vacantly  upon  the  gathering  mists  upon  the 
sea,  and  apjiarcntlv  unconscious  of  Mr.  John 
Mellish,  of  iMclIish'Park,  Yorkshire. 

This  Jolm  McUish  was,  as  I  have  said,  a 
big  man,  looking  even  bigger  than  he  was  by 
reason  of  about  eight  yards  length  of  thick 
shepherd's  plaid  twisted  scientifically  about 
his  shoulders.  He  was  a  man  of  thirty  years 
of'  age  at  least,  but  having  withal  such  a  boy- 
ish e.xuberance  in  his  manner,  such  a  youth- 
ful and  innocent  joyousness  in  his  face,  that 
he  might  have  been  a  youngster  of  eighteen 
just  let  loose  from  some  publii-,  academy  of  the 
muscular  Ciiristianity  school.  I  think  the 
Rev.  Chailes  Kiugsley  would  have  delighted 
in  this  big,  hearty,  broad-chested  young  Eng- 
lishman, with  brown  hair  brushed  away  from 
an  open  f'oreliead,  and  a  thick,  brown  mus- 
tache, bordering  a  moutli  for  ever  ready  to 
e.\p^nd  into  a  laugh.  Such  a  laugh,  too !  such 
a  h<  .trty  and  sonorous  peal,  that  the  people 
on  the  Parade  turned  round  to  look  at  the 
owner  of  tliose  sturdy  lungs,  and  smiled  good- 
natm-edly  for  very  symftathy  with  his  honest 
merriment. 

Talbot  Rulstrode  would  have  given  a  hun- 
dr(.'d  pounds  to  get  rid  of  the  noisy  Yorkshire- 
man.  What  liusiness  had  he  at  Brighton  ? 
Was  n't  the  biggest  county  in  England  big 
enough  to  hold  him,  that  he  must  needs  bring 
his  North-country  bluster  to  Susse.\  for  the 
annoyance  of  Talbot's  friends  ? 

Captain  Hulstrodi;  was  not  any  better 
ph'ased  when,  strolling  a  little  farther  on,  the 
party  met  with  Archibald  Floyd,  who  had 
come  out  to  look  for  his  daugiUer.  The.  old 
man  begged  to  be  introduced  to  Mr.  ^Mellish, 
and  invited  the  honest  Yorkshireman  to  dine 
at  the  East  Ciiff  that  very  evening,  mu<!h  to 
the  aggravation  of  Talbot,  who  fell  sulkily 
back,  and  aihnved  John  to  make  the  a((|uaint- 
ance  of  tlie  ladies.  The  familiar  brute  ingra- 
tiated himself  into  their  jjood  grai-es  in  about 
ten  minutes,  and  by  the  time  they  reached 
the  banker's  house  was  more  at  his  ease  with 
Aurora  than  the  heir  of  Bulstro<le  after  two 
mouths  acquaintance.  He  accompanied  them 
to  the  door-step,  shook  hands  with  tln^  laflii-s 
and  Mr.  Floyd,  patted  the  masliir  Bow-wow, 
gave  'J'albot  a  playful  sledge  -  hannner- like 
slap  upon  the  shoulder,  and  ran  back  to  the 
Bedford  to  dress  for  dinner.     His  spirits  were 


so  high  that  he  knocked  over  little  boys  and 
timibled  against  fashionable  young  men,  who 
drew  themselves  up  in  stiff  amazement  as  the 
big  fellow  dashed  past  them.  He  sang  a  scrap 
of  a  hunting-song  as  he  ran  up  the  great  staii-- 
case  to  his  eyry  at  the  Bedford,  and  chattered 
to  his  valet  as  he  dressed.  He  seemed  a  creat- 
ure especially  created  to  be  prosperous  —  to 
be  the  owner  and  dispenser  of  wealth,  the 
distributor  of  good  things.  People  who  were 
strangers  to  him  ran  atler  him  and  served 
him  on  sj)cculatioH,  knowing  instinctively  that 
they  would  get  an  ample  reward  for  their 
trouble.  Waiters  in  a  coffee-room  deserted 
other  tables  to  attend  upon  that  at  which  he 
was  seated.  Bo.x-keepers  would  leave  parties 
of  six  shivering  in  the  dreary  corridors  while 
they  found  a  seat  for  John  Mcllisli.  INIendi- 
eants  picked  liiin  out  from  the  crowd  in  a 
busy  thoroughfare,  and  hung  about  him,  and 
would  not  be  driviui  away  without  a  dole 
from  the  pocket  of  his  roomy  waistcoat.  He 
was  always  spending  his  money  for  the  con- 
venience of  other  people.  He  had  an  army 
of  old  S'.rvants  at  Mellish  Park,  who  adored 
him,  and  tyrannized  over  him  after  the  man- 
ner of  their  kind.  His  stables  were  crowded 
with  horses  that  were  lame,  or  wall-eyed,  or 
otherwise  d!s({ualified  for  service,  but  that 
lived  on  his  bounty  like  a  set  of  jolly  equine 
j)aupers,  and  consumed  as  much  corn  as  would 
have  supplied  a  racing-stud.  He  was  ])erpel- 
ually  paying  for  things  he  neither  ordered 
nor  had,  and  was '-for  ever  being  cheated  by 
the  dear  honest  creatures  about  him,  who,  for 
all  they  did  their  best  to  ruin  him,  would  have 
gone  through  typical  fire  and  water  to  serve 
him,  and  would  have  clung  to  him,  and  work- 
ed for  him,  and  supported  him  out  of  those 
very  savings  for  which  they  had  j-obbed  him, 
when  the  ruin  came.  If  "Muster  John"  had 
a  headache,  every  creature  in  that  disorderly 
household  was  unhappy  and  uneasy  till  the 
ailment  was  cured;  every  lad  in  the  stables, 
eveiv  servant-maid  in  the  house,  was  eager 
that  iiis  or  her  remedy  should  be  tried  for  his 
restoration.  If  you  had  said  at  IMellish  Park 
that  John's  fair  face  and  broad  shoulders  were 
not  the  highest  forms  of  manly  beauty  and 
grace,  you  wouKl  have  been  set  down  as  a 
cretiture  devoid  of  all  taste  and  judirment. 
To  the  mind  of  that  household,  John  Mellish 
in  "jjiuk*  and  pipe-cdayed  tops  was  more 
beautiful  than  the  Apollo  Bclvidere  whose 
bronze  iniage  in  little  adorned  a  niche  in  tlie 
hall.  If  you  had  told  them  that  fburteen- 
stone  weight  was  not  indispensable  to  manly 
perfei'tion,  or  that  it  was  jiossible  there  were 
more  lot'ty  accomplishments  than  driving  uni- 
corns, or  shooting  forty-seven  head  of"  game 
in  a  morninj;:,  or  pulling  the  bay  mare's  shoul- 
der into  joint  that  time  she  got  a  sprain  in 
the  hunting-field,  or  vampjisiiing  Joe  Mill- 
ings, the  East  Riding  smaslier,  without  so 
much  as  losing  breath,  those  simple-hearted 


» 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Yorkshire  servants  would  have  fairly  Iauo;he(i 
in  your  face.  Talbot  Bulstrode  complaiued 
that  everybody  respected  him,  and  nobody 
loved  him.  eTohn  Mellisli  might  have  uttered 
the  reverse  of  this  complaint,  had  he  been  so 
minded.  Who  coidd  help  lovin?  the  honest, 
generous  squire,  whose  house  and  purse  were 
open  to  all  the  country-side  ?  Who  could 
feel  any  chilling  amount  of  respect  for  the 
friendly  and  familiar  ma,ster  who  sat  upon  the 
table  in  the  big  kitchen  at  Mellish  Park,  with 
Lis  dogs  and  servants  round  him,  and  gave 
them  the  history  of  the  day's  adventures  in  the 
hunting-field,  till  the  old  blind  fox-hound  at 
his  feet  lifted  his  big  head  and  set  up  a  feeble 
music?  No;  John  Mellish  was  well  content 
to  be  beloved,  and  never  (|uestioued  the  qual- 
ity of  the  affection  bestowed  upon  him.  To 
him  it  was  all  the  purest  virgin  gold  ;  and 
you  might  have  talked  to  him  for  twelve 
hours  at  a  sitting  without  convincing  him  that 
men  and  women  were  vile  and  mercenary 
creatures,  and  that  if  his  servants,  and  his 
tenantry,  and  the  2)oor  about  his  estate,  loved 
him,  it  was  for  the  sake  of  the  temporal  bene- 
fits they  received  of  him.  He  was  as  unsus- 
picious as  a  child,  who  believes  that  the  fairies 
in  a  pantomime  are  fairies  for  ever  and  ever, 
and  that  the  liarle([uin  is  born  in  patches  and 
a  mask.  He  was  as  open  to  flattery  as  a 
school-girl  who  distributes  the  contents  of  her 
hamper  among  a  circle  of  toadies.  When 
people  told  liim  he  was  a  fine  fellow,  he  be- 
lieved them,  and  agreed  with  them,  and 
thought  that  the  world  was  altcTgether  a  heart}-, 
honest  place,  and  that  everybody  was  a  fine 
fellow.  Never  having  an  arriere  pense'e  him- 
self, he  looked  for  none  in  the  words  of  other 
people,  but  thought  that  every  one  blurted  out 
their  real  opinions,  and  oifended  or  pleased 
their  fellows  as  frankly  and  blunderingly  as 
himself.  If  he  had  been  a  vicious  young  man, 
he  would  no  doubt  have  gone  altogether  to 
the  bad,  and  fallen  among  thieves;  but,  being 
blessed  with  a  nature  that  was  inherently 
pure  and  innocent,  his  greatest  follies  were 
no  worse  than  those  of  a  big  school-boy  who 
errs  from  very  exuberance  of  spirit.  He 
had  lost  his  mother  in  the  first  year  of  his 
infancy,  and  his  father  had  died  some  time 
before  his  majority ;  so  there  had  been  none 
to  restrain  his  actions,  and  it  was  something 
at  thirty  years  of  age  to  be  able  to  look  back 
upon  a  stainless  boyhood  and  youth,  which 
might  have  been  befouled  with  the  slime  of 
the  gutters,  and  infected  with  the  odor  of 
villanous  haunts  ?  Had  he  not  rea,son  to  be 
proud  of  this  'i 

Is  there  anything,  after  all,  so  grand  as  a 
pure  and  unsullied  life  —  a  fair  picture,  with 
no  ugly  shadows  lurking  in  tjie  background 
—  a  smooth  poem,  with  no  crooked,  halting 
line  to  mar  the  verse  —  a  noble  book,  with  no 
unholy  page  —  a  simjile  story,  such  as  our 
children  may  read  ?     Can  any  greatness  be 


greater  ?  can  any  nobility  be  more  truly 
noble  ■?  W^lien  a  whole  nation  mourned  with 
one  voice  but  a  few  weeks  since ;  when  we 
drew  down  our  blinds,  and  shut  out  the  dull 
light  of  the  December  day,  and  listened  sadly 
to  the  far  booming  of  the  guns;  when  the 
poorest  put  aside  their  work-a-day  troubles  to 
weep  for  a  widowed  queen  and  orphaned  chil- 
dren in  a  desolate  palace;  when  rough  omni- 
bus-drivers forgot  to  blaspheme  at  each  other, 
and*  tied  decent  scraps  of  crape  upon  their 
whips,  and  went  sorrowfully  about  their  com- 
mon business,  thinking  of  that  great  sorrow  at 
Windsor,  the  words  that  rose  simultaneously 
to  every  lip  dwelt  most  upon  the  spotless 
character  of  him  who  was  lost — the  tender 
husband,  the  watchful  father,  the  kindly  mas- 
ter, the  liberal  patron,  the  temperate  adviser, 
the  stainless  gentleman. 

It  is  many  years  since  England  mourned 
for  another  royal  personage  who  was  called  a 
"gentleman"  —  a  gentleman  who  played 
practical  jokes,  and  held  infamous  orgies,  and 
persecuted  a  wretched  foreign  woman,  whose 
chief  sin  and  misfortune  it  was  to  be  his  wife 
—  a  gentleman  who  cut  out  his  own  nether 
garments,  and  left  the  companion  of  his  gay- 
est revels,  the  genius  Avhose  brightness  had 
flung  a  spurious  lustre  upon  the  dreary  sat- 
urnalia of  vice,  to  die  destitute  and  despair- 
ing. Surely  there  is  some  hope  that  Ave  have 
changed  for  tha  better  within  the  last  thirty 
years,  inasmuch  as  we  attach  a  new  meaning 
to-day  to  this  simple  title  of  "  gentleman."  I 
take  some  pride,  therefbie,  in  the  two  young 
men  of  whom  I  wi-ite,  for  the  simi)le  reason 
that  I  have  no  dark  patches  to  gloss  over  in 
the  histor}-  of  either  of  them.  1  may  fail  in 
making  you  like  them,  but  I  can  promise  that 
you  shall  have  no  cause  to  be  ashamed  of 
them.  Talbot  Bulstrode  may  ofi'end  you  with 
his  sulky  pride,  John  Mellish  may  simply  im- 
press you  as  a  blundering,  countrifled  igno- 
ramus, but  neither  of  them  shall  ever  shock 
you  by  an  ugly  word  or  an  unholy  thought. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

KKJECTKD   AND    ACCKPTKD. 

The  dinner-party  at  Mr.  Floyd's  was  a 
very  merry  one;  and  when  John  Mellish  and 
Talbot  Bulstrode  left  the  East  Cliff  to  walk 
westward  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  the  York- 
shireman  told  his  friend  that  he  had  never 
enjoyed  himself  so  much  in  his  life.  This 
declaration  must,  however,  be  taken  with 
some  reserve,  for  it  was  one  which  John  was 
in  the  habit  of  making  about  three  times  a 
week ;  but  he  really  had  been  very  happy  in 
the  society  of  the  banker's  family,  and,  what 
was  more,  he  was  ready  to  adore  Aurora 
Floyd  without  any  further  preparation  what- 
ever. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


27 


A  few  bright  smiles  and  sparkling  glances,  [  isbing  seliool — and  that  was  all.  Tier  life  had 
a  little  animated  eonvcrsation  about  the  hunt-  been  the  every -day  life  of  other  girls  of  her 
ing-field  and  the  race-conrse,  combined  with  \  own  position,  and  she  differed  from  them  only 
a  few  glasses  of  those  effervescent  wines  I  in  being  a  great  deal  more  fascinating,  and  a 
which  Archibald  Floyd  imported  from  the  little  more  wilful,  than  the  majority, 
fair  Moselle  country,  had  been  (jnite  enough  Talbot  laughed  at  himself  for  his  doubts 
to  turn  the  head  of  John  Mellish,  and  to  j  and  hesitations.  "  What  a  suspicious  brute 
cause  him  to  hold  wildly  forth  in  the  moon-  j  I  must  be,"  he  .said,  "  when  I  imagine  I  have 
light  upon  the  merits  of  the  beautiful  heiress,  i  fallen  upon  the  clew  to  some  mystery  simply 

"  I  verily  believe  I  shall  die  a  bachelor,  j  because  there  is  a  mournful  tenderness  in  tlie 
Talbot,"  he  said,  "  unless  I  can  get  that  girl  old  man's  voice  when  he  speaks  to  his  only 
to  marry  me.  I  've  only  known  her  half  a  child  !  If  I  were  sixty-seven  ye;irs  of  age, 
dozen  houivs,  and  I  'm  head  over  heels  in  love  :  and  had  such  a  (laughter  as  Aurora,  would 
with  her  already.  What  is  it  that  has  knocked  \  there  not  always  be  a  shuddering  terror 
me  over  like  this,  Rulstrode  ?  I  'vo  seen  I  mingled  with  my  love — a  horrible  dread  that 
other  girls  with  black  eyes  and  hair,  and  i  something  Avonld  happen  to  take  her  away 
she  knows  no  more  of  horses  than  half  the  !  from  me  V  I  will  propose  to  Miss  Floyd  to- 
women  in  Yorkshire ;  so  it  is  n't  that.  What  [  morrow." 
is  it,  then,  hey  ?■'  Had  Talbot  been   thoroughly  candid  with 

He  came  to  a  full  stop  against  a  lamp-post,  ]  himself,  he  would  perhaps  have  added,  "  Or 
and  stared  fiercely  at  his  friend  as  he  asked  1  John  Mellish  will  make  her  an  offer  the  day 
this  (piestion.  j  after." 

Talbot  gnashed  his  teeth  in  silence.  }      Ca])tain  Bulstrode  presented  himself  at  the 

It  was  no  use  battling  with  his  fate,  then,  |  house  on  tlie  East  Cliff  some  time  before 
he  thought;  the  fascination  of  this  woman  i  noon  on  the  next  day,  but  he  found  IMr.  Mcl- 
had  the  same  effect  upon  others  as  u])on  him-  j  Hsh  on  the  door-step  talking  to  Miss  Floyd's 
self;   and   ivhile    he  was   arguing  with,  and  ]  groom  and  inspecting  the  horses,  which  Avere 


protesting  against,   his    passion,  some    brain 
less  fellow,   like   this  Mellish,   would  step  in 
and  win  the  prize. 

He  wished  his  friend  good-night  upon  the 
steps  of  the  Old  Ship  Hotel,  and  walked 
straight  to  his  room,  where  he  sat  witli  his 
window  open  to  the  mild  Novend)er  night, 
staring  out  at  the  moonlit  sea.  He  ileter- 
mined  to  propose  to  Aurora  Flojd  before 
twelve  o'clock  the  ne.xt  day. 

Why  should  he  hesitate  ? 

He  iiad  asked  himself  that  question  a  hun- 
dred limes  before,  and  had  always  been  nna- 


waiting  for  the  young  ladies;  for  the  young 
ladies  were  going  to  ride,  and  John  Mellish 
was  going  to  ride  with  them. 

"  But  if  you  '11  join  us,  Bulstrode,"  the 
Yorkshireman  said,  good  -  naturedly,  "  you 
can  ride  the  gray  I  sj)oke  of  yesterday. — 
Saunders  shall  go  back  and  fetch  him." 

Talbot  rejected  this  ofler  rather  sulkily. 
"I've  my  own  horses  here,  tiiank  you."  he 
answered.  "  But  if  you  '11  let  your  groom 
ride  down  to  the  stables  and  fell  my  man  to 
bring  them  up,  I  shall  be  o!)liged  to  yon." 

After  which  condescending  refjuest  Captain 


ble  to  answer  it;  and  yet  he  had  hesitated.  !  Bulstrode  turned  his  back  upon  his  friend, 
He  could  not  dispossess  himself  of  a  vague  j  crossed  the  road,  and,  folding  his  arms  upon 
jdea  that  there  was  some  mystery  in  this  girl's  I  the  railings,  stared  resolutely  at  the  sea.    But 


life  ;  some  secret  known  only  to  herself  and 
lier  father  ;  some  one  spot  upon  the  history 
of  the  past  which  cast  a  shadow  ou  the  ]>res- 
ent.  And  yet,  how  (;ould  that  be  ?  How 
could  that  be,  he  asked  himself,  when  her 
■whole  life  only  amounteil  to  nineteen  years, 
and  he  had  heard  the  history  of  those  years 
over  and  over  again  ?     How  often   he  had 


five  minutes  more  the  ladies  appeared 
upon  the  door-step,  and  Talbot,  turning  at 
the  sound  of  their  voices,  was  fain  to  cross 
the  road  once  more  for  the  chance  of  taking 
Aurora's  foot  in  his  hand  as  she.  sprang  into 
her  saddle ;  but  John  Mellish  was  bclbre  him 
again,  and  Miss  Floyd's  mare  was  curveting 
under  the   touch   of  her  ri<fht  hand   before 


artfully  led  Lucy  to  tell  him  the  simple  story  j  the  captain  could  interfere.  He  allowed  the 
of  her  cousin's  girlhood — the  governesses  and  i  gro(jm  to  attend  to  Lucy,  and,  mounting  as 
masters  that  had  come  and  gone  at  Felden  :  (juickly  as  his  stifV  leg  would  allow  him,_he 
Woods  —  the  ponies  and  <logs,  and  ])uppies  i  prepared  to  take  his  place  by  Aurora's  side. 
and  kittens,  and  petted  foals ';  the  little  scar-  |  Again  he  was  too  late  ;  Miss  Floyd  had  can- 
let  riding-habit  that  had  been  made  for  the  j  tered  down  the  hill  attended  b^-  Alellisli,  and 
heiress  when  she  rode  after  the  hounds  with  1  it  Avas  inii)Ossible  for  'I'albot  to  leave  poor 
her  con.sin  Andrew  Floyd.  The  worst  blots  j  Lucy,  who  was  a  timid  horsewoman, 
that  the  ofiicer  could  discover  in  those  early  ■  The  captain  never  admired  I>ucy  so  little 
years  were  a  few  broken  china  vases,  and  a  j  as  on  horseback.  His  pale  samt  with  the 
great  deal  of  ink  spilled  over  badly-written  j  halo  of  golden  hair  seemed  to  him  sadly  out 
French  exercises;  and,  after  being  educated  i  of  place  iu  a  side-saddle.  He  looked  back  at 
at  home  until  she  was  nearly  eighteen,  An-  i  the  day  of  his  morning  visit  to  Felden,  and 
rora  had  been  transferred  to  a  Parisian  fin-    remembered-  how  he  had  admired  her,  and 


■28 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


how  exactly  s^he  corresponded  with  his  ideal, 
and  l)ow  determined  he  was  to  be  bewitched 
with  licr  rather  than  by  Aurora.  "  If  she 
had  fallen  in  love  with  me,"  he  thought,  "  I 
would  have  snapped  my  finj^ers  at  the  black- 
browed  heiress,  and  married  this  faif-haired 
angel  out  of  hand.  I  meant  to  do  that  when 
I  sold  my  commission.  It  was  not  for  Auro- 
Nra's  sake  1  left  the  army,  it  was  not  Aurora 
whom  I  followed  down  here.  Which  did  I 
follow?  What  did  I  follow,  I  wonder?  My 
destiny,  I  supjiose,  which  is  leading  me  through 
such  a  witch'*s  dance  as  I  never  thought  to 
tread  at  the  sober  age  of  three-and-thirty. 
If  Lucy  had  only  loved  me,  it  might  have 
been  ail  different.'' 

He  was  so  angry  with  himself  that  he  was 
half  inclined  to  be  angry  with  poor  Lucy  for 
not  extracting  him  from  the  snares  of  Aurora. 
If  he  could  have  read  that  innocent  heart  as 
he  rode  in  sulky  silence  across  the  stunted 
turf  on  the  wide  downs  — if  he  could  have 
known  the  slow,  sick  pain  in  that  gentle 
breast,  as  the  quiet  girl  by  his  side  lifted  her 
blue  eyes  every  now  and  then  to  steal  a 
glance  at  his  hard  profile  and  moody  brow  — 
if  he  could  have  read  her  secret  later,  when, 
talking  of  Aurora,  he  for  the  first  time  clearly 
betrayed  the  mystery  of  his  own  heart  —  if 
he  could  have  known  how  the  landscaj)e  grew 
dim  before  her  eyes,  and  how  the  brown 
moorland  reeled  beneath  her  horse's  hoofs 
until  they  seemed  going  down,  down,  down 
into  some  fathomless  depth  of  sorrow  and 
despair!  But  he,  knew  nothing  of  this,  and 
he  thought  Lucy  Floyd  a  pretty,  inanimate 
girl,  who  would  no  doubt  be  delighted  to 
wear  a  becoming  dress  as  bridesmaid  at  her 
cousin's  wedding. 

There  Avas  a  dinner-party  that  evening 
upon  the  East  CiilT,  at  which  both  John  Mel- 
lish  and  Talbot  were  to  assist,  and  the  captain 
savagely  detei-mined  to  bring  matters  to  an 
issue  before  the  night  was  out. 

Talbot  Raleigh  Bulstrode  would  have  been 
very  angry  with  you  had  you  watched  him 
too  closely  that  evening  as  he  fastened  the 
golden  solitaire  in  his  narrow  cravat  before 
his  looking-glass  in  the  bow-window  at  the 
Old  Ship.  He  was  ashamed  of  himself  for 
being  causelessly  savage  with  his  valet,  whom 
he  dismis.sed  abruptly  before  he  began  to 
dress,  and  had  not  the  courage  to  call  the 
man  back  agaiu  when  his  own  hot  hands 
refused  to  do  their  otlice.  He  spilled  half  a 
bottleful  of  perfume  upon  his  varnished  boots, 
and  smeared  Ijis  face  with  a  terrible  waxy 
compoi:^nd  which  piomise<l  to  litser  tiuns  (jrak- 
stT  his  mustache.  He  broke  one  of  the  crys- 
tal boxes  in  his  dressing-case,  and  put  the 
bits  of  broken  glass  in  his  waistcoat-pocket 
from  sheer  absence  of  mind.  He  underwent 
semi-strangulation  with  the  unbending  circu- 
lar collar  in  which,  as  a  gentleuivan,  it  was 
his  duty  to  invest  himself;  and  he  could  have 


beaten  the  ivory  backs  of  his  brushes  upon 
his  head  in  blind  execration  of  that  short, 
stubborn  black  hair,  which  only  curled  at  the 
other  ends :  and,  when  at  last  he  emerged 
from  his  room,  it  was  with  a  spiteful  sensa- 
tion that  every  waiter  in  the  place  knew  his 
secret,  and  had  a  perfect  knowledge  of  every 
emotion  in  his  breast,  and  that  the  very  New- 
foundland dog  lying  on  the  door-step  had  an 
inkling  of  the  truth,  as  he  lifted  up  his  big 
head  to  look  at  the  captain,  and  then  dropped 
it  again  with  a  contemptuously  lazy  yawn. 

Captain  Bulstrode  offered  a  handful  of 
broken  glass  to  the  man  who  drove  him  to 
the  East  Cliff,  and  then  confusedly  substituted 
about  fifteen  shillings  worth  of  silver  coin  for 
that  abnormal  species  of.  payment.  There 
must  have  been  two  or  three  earthquakes 
and  an  eclipse  or  so  going  on  in  souie  part  of 
the  globe,  he  thought,  for  this  jog-trot  planet 
seemed  all  tumult  and  confusion  to  Talbot 
Bulstrode.  The  woidd  was  all  Brighton,  and 
Brighton  was  all  blue  moonlight,  and  steel- 
colored  sea,  and  glancing,  dazzling  u;as-light, 
and  hare-soup,  and  cod  and  oysters,  aud  Au- 
rora Floyd  —  yes;  Aurora  Floyd,  who  wore  a 
white  silk  dress,  and  a  thick  circlet  of  dull 
gold  upon  her  hair,  who  looked  more  like 
Cleopatra  to-night  than  ever,  and  who  suffered 
Mr.  John  Mcllish  to  take  lier  down  to  dinner. 
How  Talbot  hated  the  Yorkshireman's  big 
fair  face,  and  blue  eyes,  and  white  teeth,  as 
he  watched  the  two  young  people  across  a 
phalanx  of  glass  and  silver,  and  fiowers  and 
wax  candles,  and  pickles,  and  other  Fortnum 
and  Mason  ware  !  Here  was  a  golden  oppor- 
tunity lost,  thought  the  discontented  captain, 
forgetful  that  he  could  scarcely  have  pro- 
posed to  Miss  Floyd  at  the  dinner-table,  amid 
the  jingle  of  glasses  and  popping  of  corks, 
and  with  a  big  powdered  footman  charging 
at  him  with  a  side-dish  or  a  sauce-tureen 
while  he  put  the  fatal  question.  Tlie  desire(^ 
moment  came  a  few  hours  afterwai'd,  and 
Talbot  had  no  longer  any  excuse  for  delay. 

The  November  evening  was  mild,  and  the 
three  windows  in  the  drawing-room  were 
open  from  iloor  to  ceiling.  It  was  pleasant 
to  look  out  from  the  hot  gas-light  upon  ihat 
wide  sv.'eep  of  moonlit  ocean,  with  a  white 
sail  glimmering  here  and  there  against  the 
purple  night.  Captain  Bulstrode  sat  near 
one  of  the  open  windows,  watching  that  tran- 
quil scene,  with,  I  fear,  very  little  apprecia- 
tion of  its  beauty.  He  was  wishing  that  the 
people  would  drop  off  and  leave  him  alone 
with  Aurora.  It  was  close  upon  eleven 
o'clock,  and  high  time  they  went.  John 
Mellish  would  of  course  insist  upon  waiting 
for  Talbot ;  this  was  Avhat  a  man  had  to 
endure  on  account  of  some  old  school-boy 
acquaintance.  All  Rugby  might  turn  up 
against  him  in  a  day  or  two,  and  dispute 
Avith  him  for  Aurora's  smiles.  But  John  Mel- 
lish was  engaged  in  a  very  animated  conver- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


29 


sation  with  Archibald  Floyd,  having  con- 
trived, with  consummate  artifice,  to  ingratiate 
himself  in  the  old  man's  favor,  and,  the  visit- 
ors having  one  by  one  dropp(;d  oil",  Anrora, 
with  a  listless  yawn  that  she  took  little  pains 
to  conceal,  strolled  out  into  the  broad  iron 
balcony.  Lucy  was  .«;ittin£j  at  a  table  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  looking  at  a  book  of 
beauty.  Oh,  my  poor  Lucy!  how  mucli  did 
ybu  see  of  the  Honorable  Miss  Brownsmith's 
higli  forehead  and  Roman  nose  ?  Did  rot 
that  ynung  lady's  liandsome  face  stare  up  at 
you  dimly  through  a  blinding  mist  of  tear.< 
that  you  were  a  great  deal  too  well  educated 
to  shed  y  The  chance  had  come  at  last.  If 
life  had  been  a  Haymarket  comedy,  and  the 
entiances  and  exits  arranged  by  Mr.  Buck- 
stone  himself,  it  could  have  fallen  out  no  bet- 
ter than  thi.s.  Talbot  Bulsfrode  followed 
Aur<tra  on  to  the  balcony ;  John  Mellisli 
went  on  with  his  story  about  the  Beverly 
fox-hounds;  and  Lucy,  holding  her  breath  at 
the  otljcr  end  of  tlie  room,  knew  as  well  what 
was  going  to  happt-n  as  the  captain  himself. 
Is  not  life  altogethcra  long  comedy,  with 
Fate  for  the  stage-manager,  and  Passion,  In- 
chnation.  Love,  Hate,  Revenge,  Ambition, 
and  Avarice,  by  turns,  in  the  prompter's  box  V 
A  tii'esome  comedy  sometimes,  with  dreary, 
talkee,  talkee  front  scenes  which  come  to 
nothing,  but  only  serve  to  make  the  audience 
more  impatient  as  they  Avait  while  the  stage 
is  set  and  the  great  people  change  their 
dresses;  or  a  ".sensation"  comedy,  witli  un- 
looked-tbr  tableaux  and  unexpected  di'nou- 
vienls ;  but  a  comedy  to  the  end  of  the  chap- 
ter, for  the  sorrows  which  seem  tragic  to  us 
are  very  funny  when  seen  from  the  other  side 
of  the  tbot-Iighfs ;  and  our  frieJids  in  the  pit 
are  as  much  amused  with  our  trumpery  grief's 
a,s  the  Haymarket  habiluf't'  when  Mr.  Box 
iinds  his  gridii-on  empty,  or  Mr.  Cox  misses 
hi.s  rasher.  Wliat  can  be  funnier  than  other 
people's  anguish  V  Why  do  we  enjoy  Mr. 
Maddison  Morton's  farces,  and  langli  till  the 
tears  run  down  bur  cheeks  at  the  comedian 
who  enacts  them  ?  Be<'au.so  there  is  scarcely 
a  farce  upon  the  British  stage  which  is  not, 
from  the  rising  to  the  dropping  of  the  curtain, 
a  record  of  human  anguish  and  undeserved 
misery.  Yes,  uude.-'erved  and  unnecessary 
tortiu'e  —  there  is  the  .special  charm  ot  the 
entertainment.  If  the  man  who  was  weak 
enough  to  send  his  wife  to  Camberwell  had 
crushed  a  baby  behind  a  chest  of  drawers, 
his  sufTerings  would  n't  be  half  so  delightful  to 
an  intellectual  audience.  If  the  gentleman 
who  became  embroiled  with  his  laundress  had 
m\n'dered  the  young  lady  in  the  green  boots, 
where  woulil  be  the  fun  of  that  old  Adelphi 
farce  in  which  poor  Wright  was  wont  to  de- 
light us  y  And  so  it  is  with  our  friends  on  the 
other  side  of  the  foot-lights,  who  t-njoy  our 
troubles  all  the  more  bccau.sc  we  have  not  al- 


j  ways  deserved  them,  and  whose  sorrows  we 
shall  gloat  over  by  and  by,  when  the  bell  for 
I  the  next  piece  begins,  and  it  is  their  turn  to 
j  go  on  and  act, 

j      Talbot  Bulstrode  went  out  on  to  the  1|bI- 
j  cony,  and  the  earth  stood  still  for  ten  mijiutes 
'  or  so,  and   every  steel-blue   star  in   the  sky 
I  fjlared  watchfully  down  upon  the  young  man 
j  in  this  the  supreme  crisis  of  his  life. 
;      Aurora  was  leaning  against  a  slender  iron 
;  pilaster,   looking   aslant   into   the    town,   and 
j  across  the  town  into  the  sea.     SIk'  was  wrap- 
ped in  an  opera  cloak ;  no  stiff,  embroidered, 
young   ladified    garment,    but   a    voluminous 
drapery  of  sot>  si-arlct  woollen  stuiT,  such  a." 
Semiramidc  herself  miglit  have  worn.     "  She 
j  looks  like  Semiraniide,"  Talbot  thought.  "How 
did  this   Scotch    banker  and    his    Lancashim 
I  wife    come    to    have    an    Assyrian    for    their 
I  daughter?'' 

j      He  began   brilliantly,  this  young  man,  as 
j  lovers  generally  do. 

"  I  am  afraiti  you  must  have  fatigued  vonr- 
self  this  evening,  Miss  Floyd,"  he  remarked. 
Aurora  stifled  a  yawn  as  she  answered  him. 
"I  am  rather  tired,"  she  said. 

It  was  n't  very  encouraging.  How  was  he 
to  begin  an  eloijuent  speech,  when  she  might 
fall  asleep  in  the  middle  of  it?  But  he  did; 
he  dashed  at  once  into  the  heart  of  his  sub- 
ject, and  he  told  lier  how  he  loved  her;  how 
he  had  done  battle  with  this  passion,  which 
had  been  too  strong  for  him  ;  iiow  he  loved 
her  as  he  ntiver  thought  to  love  any  creature 
upon  this  earth ;  and  liow  he  cast  himself  be- 
j  fore  her  in  all  humility,  to  take  his  sentence 
j  of  life  or  death  from  her  dear  lips. 

She  was  silent  for  some  moments,  her  pro- 

j  file  sharply  distinct  to  him  in  the  miwnlight. 

and  those  dear  lips  trembling  visibly.     Then, 

I  with   a   half-averted  face,  and  in  words  that 

I  seemed  to  come  slowly  and  painfully  from  a 

stifled  throat,  she  gave  him  his  answer. 

That  answer  was  a  rejirction  ! 

Not  a  young  lady's  No,  which  means  yes 

I  to-morrow,  or  which  means  perhaps  that  you 

I  have  not  been  on  your  knees  in  a  passion  of 

I  despair,  like  Lord  Edward  Fitz  Morkysh  in 

Miss  Oderose's   last  novel.     Nothing  of  this 

I  kind ;    but    a   calm    negative,    carefully    and 

I  tersel}-   worded,   as  if  she  feared   to  mislead 

I  him   by  so   much  as  one   syllable  that  could 

I  leave  a  loop-hole  through  which  hope  might 

j  creep  into  his  heart.     He  was  lejected.     For 

a  moment  it  was  quite  as  much  as  he  could  do 

to    believe    it.     He   was   inclined  to  imagine 

that    the    signification    of  certain   words  liad 

suddiuly  changed,  or  that  he  hail  been  in  the 

habit  of   mistaking  them  all   his  lif'c.   rather 

than  that  ihose  words  meant  this  hard  fact, 

namely,  that  he,  Talbot  Raleigh  Bulstrode,  of 

Bulstrode   Castle,   and  of   Saxon   cxti'action, 

had  been  rejected  by  the  daughter  of  a  lyom- 

bard-street  banker. 


30 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


lie  paused  —  for  an  liour  and  a  ha!f  or  so, 
as  it  seemed  to  bim  —  in  order  to  collect  him- 
self before  he  spoke  again. 

"May  I  —  venture  to  inquire,"  he  said  — 
how  horribly  commonplace  the  phrase  seemed ; 
he  could  have  used  no  worse  had  he  been 
inquiring  for  furnished  lodgings — "  may  I 
ask  if  any  prior  attachment  —  to  one  more 
worthy  — " 

"  Oh  no,  no,  no!" 

The  answer  came  upon  him  so  suddenly 
that  it  almoijt  startled  him  as  much  as  her  re- 
jection. 

"And  yet  your  decision  is  irrevocable  ?" 

"Quite  irrevocable." 

"Forgive  me  If  I  am  intrusive;  but  —  but 
Mr.  Floyd  may  perhaps  have  formed  some 
liigher  views." 

"He  was  interrupted  by  a  stifled  sob  as  she 
clasped  her  hands  over  her  averted  face. 

"Higher  views!"  she  said;  "poor,  dear  old 
man,  no,  no,  indeed." 

"It  is  scarcely  strange  that  I  bore  you  with 
these  questions.  It  is  so  hai-d  to  think  that, 
meeting  you  with  your  aifections  disengaged, 
I  have  yet  been  utterly  unable  to  win  one 
shadow  of  regard  upon  which  I  might  build  a 
hope  for  tlie  future." 

Foor  Talbot!  Talbot,  the  splitter  of  meta- 
physical straws  and  chopper  of  logic,  talking 
of  building  hopes  on  shadows  with  a  lover's 
delirious  stupidity. 

"It  is  so  hard  to  resign  every  thought  of 
your  ever  coming  to  alter  your  decision  of  to- 
night, Aurora"  —  he  lingered  on  her  name 
for  a  moment,  first  because  it  was  so  sweet  to 
say  it,  and,  secondly,  in  the  hope  that  she 
would  speak  — "  It  is  so  hard  to  remember 
the  fabric  of  happiness  I  had  dared  to  build, 
and  to  lay  it  down  here  to-night  for  ever  " 

Talbot  quite  forgot  that,  up  to  the  time  of 
the  arrival  of  John  Mellish,  he  had  been  per- 
petually arguing  against  his  passion,  and  had 
dcclareil"  to  himself  over  and  over  again  that 
he  would  be  a  consummuiate  fool  if  he  was 
ever  beguiled  into  making  Aurora  his  wife. 
He  reversed  the  parable  of  the  fox;  for  he 
had  been  inclined  to  make  faces  at  the  grapes 
while  he  fancied  them  within  his  reach,  and, 
now  that  they  were  removed  from  his  grasp, 
he  thought  that  such  delicious  fruit  had  never 
grown  to  tempt  mankind. 

"If —  if,"  he  said,  "my  fete  had  been  hap- 
pier. T  know  how  proud  my  father,  poor  old 
Sir  John,  would  have  been  of  his  eldest  son's 
choice." 

riow  ashamed  he  felt  of  the  meanness  of 
this  speech !_  The  artful  sentence  had  been 
constructed  in  order  to  remind  Aurora  whom 
she  was  refusing.  He  was  trying  to  bribe  her 
with  the  baronetcy  which  was  to  be  his  in 
due  time.  But  she  made  no  answer  to  the 
pitiful  appeal.  Talbot  was  almost  choked  with 
mortification.  " I  see— I  see,"  he  said,  "that 
it  Is  hopeless.     Good-night,  Miss  Floyd." 


She  did  not  even  turn  to  look  at  him  as  he 
left  the  balcony;  but,  with  her  red  drapery 
wrapped  tightly  round  her,  stood  shivering  in 
the  moonlight,  with  the  silent  tears  slowly 
stealing  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Higher  views!"  she  cried  bitterly,  repeat- 
ing a  phrase  that  Talbot  used  —  "higher 
views!     God  help  him!" 

"  I  must  wish  you  good-night  and  good-by 
at  the  same  time,"  Captain  Bulstrode  said  as 
he  shook  hands  with  Lucy. 

"  Good-by  V" 

"  Yes  ;  I  l^ave  Brighton  early  to-morrow." 

"  So  suddenly  ?" 

"  Why  not  exactly  suddenly.  I  always 
meant  to  travel  this  winter.  Can  I  do  any- 
thing for  you  —  at  Cairo?" 

He  was  so  pale,  and  cold,  and  wretched- 
looking  that  she  almost  pitied  him  In  spite  of 
the  wild  joy  growing  up  In  her  heart.  Aurora 
had  refused  him  —  it  was  perfectly  clear  — 
refused  A i«i/  The  soft  blue  eyes  tilled  with 
tears  at  the  thought  that  a  demigod  should 
have  endured  such  humiliation.  Talbot  press- 
ed her  hand  gently  in  his  own  clammy  palm. 
He  could  read  pity  in  that  tender  look,  but 
possessed  no  lexicon  by  which  he  could  trans- 
late its  deeper  meaning. 

"You  will  wish  your  uncle  good-by  for  me, 
Lucy,"  he  said.  He  called  her  Lucy  for  the 
first  time  ;  but  what  did  it  matter  now  V  His 
great  affliction  set  him  apart  from  his  fellow- 
men,  and  gave  him  dismal  privileges.  "Good- 
night, Lucy  ;  good-night  and  good-bj'.  I  — 
I  —  shall  hope  to  see  3'ou  again  In  a  year  or 
two." 

The  pavement  of  the  East  Cliff"  seemed  so 
much  air  beneath  Talbot  Bulstrode's  boots  as 
he  strode  back  to  the  Old  Slilp;  for  It  is  pecuV 
iar  to  us,  in  our  moments  of  supreme  trouble 
or  joy,  t6  lose  all  consciousness  of  the  earth 
we  tread,  and  to  float  upon  the  atmospliei-e  of 
sublime  egotism. 

But  the  captain  did  not  leave  Brighton  the 
next  day  on  the  first  stage  of  his  J*]gyptian 
journey.  He  staid  at  the  fa'shlonable  water- 
ing-place ;  but  he  resolutely  aljured  the 
neighborhood  of  the  East  Chif,  and,  the  day 
being  wet,  took  a  pleasant  walk  to  vShoreham 
through  the  rain;  and  Shoreham  being  such 
a  pretty  place,  he  was,  no  doubt,  much  en- 
livened by  that  exercise. 

Returning  through  the  fog  at  about  four 
o'clock,  the  captain  met  Mr.  John  Mellish 
close  against  the  turnpike  outside  Cllftonville. 

The  two  men  stared  aghast  at  each  other. 

"  Why,  where  on  earth  are  you  going '?" 
asked  Talbot. 

"  Back  to  Yorkshire  by  the  first  train  that 
leaves  Brighton." 

"  But  this  is  n't  the  way  to  the  station  !" 

"  No  ;  but  they  're  putting  the  horses  in  my 
portmanteau,  and  my  shirts  are  going  by  the 
Leeds  cattle-train,  and  —  " 

Talbot  Bulstrode  burst  into  .a  loud  laugh,  a 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


31 


harsh  and  bitter  cachlnnation,  but  afFoixilng 
wondrous  relief  to  that  gentleman's  over- 
charged breast. 

"John  Mellish,"  he  said,  "you  have  been 
proposing  to  Aurora  Floyd." 

The  Yorkshireman  turned  scarlet.  "  It  — 
it  —  was  n't  honorable  of  her  to  tell  you,"  he 
stammered. 

"  Sliss  Floyd  has  never  breathed  a  word  to 
me  upon  the  subjeet.  I  've  just  eome  from 
Shorcliain,  and  you  've  only  lately  left  the 
East  Cliff.  You  've  proposed,  and  you  've 
been  rejected." 

"  I  have,"  roared  John  ;  "  and  it  's  doosed 
hard,  when  I  promised  her  she  should  keep  a 
i-aeing-stiid  if  slie  liked,  and  enter  as  many 
colts  as  she  pleased  for  the  Derby,  and  give 
her  own  orders  to  the  trainer,  and  I  'd  never 
interfere;  and  —  and  —  JMellish  Park  is  one 
of  the  finest  places  in  the  county;  and  I  'd 
iiave  won  lier  a  bit  of  blue  ril)bon  to  tie  up 
her  bonny  black  hair." 

"  That  old  Frenchman  was  riiiht."  muttered 
Captain  Bulstrode ;  "there  t.v  a  great  satis- 
faction in  the  misfortunes  of  others.  If  I  go 
to  my  dentist,  I  like  to  find  another  wretch 
in  the  waiting-room ;  and  I  like  to  have  ray 
tooth  extracted  first,  and  to  see  him  glare 
enviously  at  nic  as  I  come  out  of  the  tortnre- 
chanibcr,  knowing  that  my  troubles  are  over, 
while  his  are  to  come.  Good-by,  John  Mel- 
lish, and  (rod  bless  3"ou.  You  're  not  such  a 
bad  fellow,  after  all." 

Talbot  felt  almost  cheerful  as  he  walked 
back  to  the  Ship,  and  he  took  a  mutton  cut- 
let and  tomato  sauce,  and  a  pint  of  Mos^dle 
for  his  dinner;  and  the  food  and  wine  warmed 
him  ;  and,  not  having  slept  a  wink  on  the 
previous  niglit,  he  fell  into  a  heavy  indigest- 
ible slumber,  Avith  his  head  hanging  over  the 
sofa-cusliion,  and  dreamed  that  he  was  at 
Grand  Cairo  (or  at  a  place  wiiicli  would  have 
been  that  city  had  it  not  been  now  and  tiien 
Bulstrode  Castle,  and  occasionally  chambers 
in  the  Aliiany),  and  that  Aurora  Floyd  Avas 
Avith  him,  clail  in  imperial  purple,  Avith  hiero- 
glyphics on  file  hem  of  her  robe,  and  Avearing 
a  cloAvn's  jacket  of  Avhite  satin  and  scarlet 
spots,  such  as  he  had  once  seen  foremost  in  a 
great  race.  Captain  Bulstrode  ai'osc  early 
the  next  morning,  Avith  the  full  intention  of 
departing  from  Sussex  by  the  8.4.")  express; 
but  suddenly  remembering  that  he  had  but 
poorly  acknoAvledged  Archibald  Floyd's  cor- 
diality, lui  determined  on  sacrificing  his  in- 
clinations on  the  shrine  of  courtesy,  and  call- 
ing onct;  more  at  the  Ea.st  Clift"  to  take  leave 
of  the  Ijaiiker.  Having  once  resolved  upon 
this  line  ol"  action,  the  captain  would  fain 
have  huriicd  that  moment  to  IMr.  Floyd's 
house;  but,  finding  that  it  wa.s  only  half- 
past  seven,  he  Avas  i;ompellcil  to  restrain  his 
impatiencre  and  await  a  more  .seasonable;  hour. 
Could  he  go  at  nine?  Scarcely.  At  ten  V 
Ye*,  surely,  as  he  could  then  leave  by  the 


I  eleven  o'clock  train.     He  sent  his  breakfast 

I  aAvay  untouched,  and  sat  looking  at  his  watch 
in  a  mad  hurry  for  the  time  to  pass,  yet  groAv- 

I  ing  hot  and  uncomfortable  as  the  hour  drcAV 

I  near. 

!      At  a  quarter  to  ten  he  put  on  his  hat  and 

j  left  the  hotel.     Mr.  Floyd  Avas  at  liome,  the 
servant  told  him — tip  stairs  in  the  little  study, 

I  he    thought.     Talbot    Avaited    for    no   more. 

j  "You  need  not  announce  me,"  he  .said;  "I 

I  know  Avhere  to  find  your  master." 

The  study  Avas  on  the  same  floor  as  the 
drawing-room,  and  close  against  the  draAving- 
rooin  door  Talbot  paused  ("or  a  moment.  The 
door  Avas  open  ;  the  room  empty  —  no,  not 
emj)ty:  Aurora  Floyil  Avas  there,  seated  Avith 
her  back  toward  him,  and  her  head  leaning 
on  the,  cushions  of  her  chair.  He  stojiped  for 
another  moment  to  admire  the  back  vicAV  of 
that  small  head,  Avith  its  croAvn  of  lustrous 
raven  hair,  then  took  a  step  or  tAvo  in  the 
direction  of  the  banker's  study,  tlieii  .slopped 
again,  then  turned  back,  Avent  into  the  draw* 
ing-room,  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

She  did  not  stir  as  he  approaclic.d  her,  nor 
ansAver  Avhcn  he  stammered  her  name.  H»!r 
face  Avas  as  Avhite  as  the  face  of  a  dead  Avoman, 
and  her  nerveless  hands  hung  over  the  cush- 
ions of  the  arm-chair.  A  neAvspaper  Avas 
lying  at  her  feet.  She  had  (juletly  swooned 
away  sitting  there  bj'  herself,  Avith  no  one  by 
to  restore  her  to  consciousness. 

Talbot  flung  some  Jlowers  fi'om  a  vase  on 
the  table,  and  dashed  tin;  Avater  over  Aurora's 
I'orchead ;  then,  Avheellng  her  chair  close  to 
the  open  Avindow,  he  set  her  Avith  her  t'ace  to 
the  Avind.  In  Iavo  or  three  moments  she  began 
to  shiver  violently,  and  soon  aftcrwai-d  opened 
lu!r  eyes  and  looked  at  him  ;  as  sh^  did  so,  she 
put  her  hands  to  her  head,  as  if  trying  to 
remember  something.  "  Talbot  I"  she  said, 
"  Talbot !" 

She  called  him  by  his  Christian  name,  she 
Avho  ftve-and-thirty  hours  before  had  coldly 
forbidden  him  to  hope. 

"  Aurora,"  he  cried,  "  Aurora,  I  thought  I 
came  here  to  Avish  your  father  good-by ;  but  I 
deceived  myself  I  came  to  ask  you  once 
more,  and  once  for  all,  if  your  decision  of  tho 
night  before  last  Avas  irrevocable  V" 

"  Heaven  knows  I  thought  it  was  when 
1   uttered  it." 

"  But  it  Ava«  not?" 
"Do  you  Avisli  me  to  revoke  it  V" 
"  Do  I  Avish  ?  do  I — " 

"  Because,  if  you  really  ilo,  I  Avill  revoke 
it;  for  you  are  a  bra\'C  and  honorable  man, 
Capi'iin  Bulstrode,  and  I  love  you  very 
dearly." 

He;i\-en  knoAvs  into  Avhat  rhapi^odies  he 
might  have  fallen,  but  she  put  up  her  hand, 
as  much  as  to  say.  "  Forbear  to-day,  if  you 
love  me,"  and  hurried  from  the  room.  He 
had  accepted  the  cup  of  haiuj  which  the  siren 
had  offered,  and  had  drained  the  y^^ry  dregs 


Zi 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


thereof,  and  was  drimken.  He  dropped  into 
tbe  chair  in  which  Aurora  had  sat,  and, 
absent-minded  in  his  joyful  intoxication, 
picked  up  tlie  newspaper  that  had  lain  at 
her  feet.  He  shuddered  in  spite  of  himself 
swi  he  looked  at  the  title  of  the  journal;  it  was 
Befl's  Life — a  dirty  copy,  crumpled,  and  beer- 
stained,  and  emitting  rank  odors  of  inferior 
tobacco.  It  was  directed  to  Miss  Floyd,  in 
such  sprawling  penmanship  as  might  have 
disgraced  the  "pot-boy  of  a  sporting  public 
house : 

"  Miss  Floid, 

fell  dun  wodes, 
kent." 

The  newspaper  had  been  redirected  to 
Aurora  by  the  housekeeper  at  Felden.  Tal- 
bot ran  his  eye  eagerly  over  the  front  page; 
it  was  almost  entirely  filled  with  advertise- 
ments (and  such  advertisements !),  but  in 
one  column  there  was  an  account  headed 
"  Frightful  AcciDKXT  in  Gkkmany:  an 
English  Jockey  killkd." 

Captain  Bulstrode  never  knew  wh)-  he 
read  of  this  accident.  It  was  in  no  way  in- 
teresting to  him,  being  an  account  of  a 
steeple-chase  in  Prussia,  in  which  a  heavy 
English  rider  and  a  crack  French  horse  had 
been  killed.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  re- 
Sjret  expressed  for  the  loss  of  the  horse,  and 
none  (or  the  man  who  had  ridden  him,  who, 
the  reporter  stated,  was  very  little  known  in 
sporting -circles;  but  in  a  paragraph  lower 
down  was  added  this  information,  evidently 
procured  at  the  last  moment :  "  The  jockey's 
name  was  Convers." 


CHAPTER  VIT. 
aukoka's  strange  pensioner. 

Archibald  Floyd  received  the  news  of  his 
daughter's  choice  with  evident  pride  and 
satisfaction.  It  seemed  as  if  some  heavy 
Jburdon  had  been  taken  away,  as  if  some 
cruel  shadow  had  been  lifted  from  the  lives 
of  father  and  daughter. 

The  banker  took  his  family  back  to  Felden 
Woods,  with  Talbot  Bulstrode  in  his  train  ; 
and  the  chintz  rooms — pretty,  cheerful  cham- 
ber.s,  with  bow-windows  that  looked  across 
the  well-kept  stable-yard  into  long  glades  of 
oak  and  beech  —  were  prepared  for  the  ex- 
Hussar,  who  was  to  spend  his  Christmas  at 
Felden. 

Mrs.  Alexander  and  her  husband  were 
established  Avith  their  fomily  in  the  western 
wing  ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Andrew  were  located  at 
the  eastern  angle ;  for  it  was  the  hospitable 
custom  of  the  old  banker  to  summon  his  kins- 
folk about  him  early  in  December,  and  to 
keep  them  witli  him  till  the  bells  of  romantic 
Beckenham  church  had  heralded  in  the  New 
Year. 


Lucy  Floyd's  cheeks  had  lost  much  of  their 
delicate  color  when  she  returned  to  Felden, 
and  it  was  pronounced  by  all  who  observed 
the  change  that  the  air  of  East  Cliff,  and  the 
autumn  winds  drifting  across  the  bleak  downs, 
had  been  too  much  for  the  young  lady's 
strength. 

Aurora  seemed  to  have  burst  forth  into 
some  new  and  more  glorious  beauty  since  the 
morning  upon  which  she  had  accepted  tbe 
hand  of  Talbot  Bulstrode.  There  was  a 
proud  defiance  in  her  manner,  which  became 
her  better  than  gentleness  becomes  far  love*- 
lier  women.  There  was  a  haughty  i7}sou€i- 
ance  about  this  young  lady  which  gave  new 
brilliancy  to  her  great  black  eyes,  and  new 
music  to  her  joyous  laugh.  She  was  like  some 
beautiful,  noisy,  boisterous  water-fall,  for  ever 
dancing,  rushing,  sparkling,  scintillating,  and 
utterly  defying  you  to  do  anything  but  ad- 
mire it.  Talbot  Bulst«-odc,  having  once  aban- 
doned himself  to  the  spell  of  the  siren,  made 
no  farther  struggle,  but  fairly  fell  into  the 
pitfalls  of  her  eyes,  and  was  entangled  in  th.> 
meshy  net-work  of  her  blue-black  hair.  The 
greater  the  tension  of  the  bowstring,  the 
stronger  the  rebound  thereof;  and  Talbot 
Bulstrode  was  as  weak  to  give  way  at  las*  as 
he  had  long  been  powerful  to  resist.  I  must 
write  his  story  in  the  commonest  words.  He 
could  not  help  it !  He  loved  her ;  not  be- 
cause he  thought  her  better,  or  wiser,  or 
lovelier,  or  more  suited  to  him  than  many 
other  women  —  indeed,  he  had  grave  doubts 
upon  every  one  of  these  points  —  but  because 
it  was  his  destiny,  and  he  loved  her. 

What  is  that  hard  word  which  M.  Victor 
Hugo  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  priest  in 
The  Hunchback  of  Notre  Dome  a,s  an  excuse 
for  the  darkness  of  his  sin?  Ai^akthe .'  It 
was  his  fate.  So  he  wrote  to  his  mother,  and 
told  her  that  he  had  chosen  a  wife  who  was  to 
sit  in  the  halls  of  Bulstrode,  and  whose  name 
was  to  be  interwoven  with  the  chronicles  of 
the  house ;  told  her,  moreover,  that  Miss 
Floyd  was  a  banker'.s  daughter,  beautiful  and 
fascinating,  with  big  black  eyes,  and  fifty 
thousand  pounds  for  her  dowry.  Lady  Ra- 
leigh Bulstrode  answered  her  son's  letter  upon 
a  quarter  of  a  (juire  of  note-paper,  filled  with 
fearful  motherl}-  prayers  and  suggestions ; 
anxious  hopes  that  he  had  chosen  wisely ; 
questionings  as  to  the  opinions  and  religions 
principles  of  the  young  lady  -^much,  indeed, 
that  Talbot  would  have  been  sorely  puzzled 
to  answer.  Inclosed  in  this  was  a  letter  to 
Aurora,  a  womanly  and  tender  epistle,  in 
which  pride  Avas  tempered  with  love,  and 
which  brought  big  tears  welling  up  to  Miss 
Floyd's  eyes,  until  Lady  Bulstrode's  firm 
penmanship  grew  blotted  and  blurred  be- 
neath the  reader's  vision. 

And  whither  went  poor  slaughtered  John 
Mellish  ?  He  returned  to  Mellish  Park,  car- 
rying  with    him   his   dogs,    and   horses,   and 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


3S 


groonts,  and    phaeton,  and  other   parapher- 
nah'a;  but  his  grief — having  unluckily  come 
upon  him  after  the  racing  season  —  was  too 
much    for   him,  and   he  fled   away   from  the 
roomy   old   mansion,  with    its   pleasant   sur- 
roundings of  park  and  woodland  :  for  Aurora 
Floyd   was  not  for  him,  and  it  was  all  flat, 
stale,  and  unprofitable.     So  he  went  to  Paris, 
or  Parry,  as  he  called  that  imperial  city,  and 
established  himself  in   the  biggest  chambers 
at  Meurice's,  and  went  backward  and  forward 
between  that  establishment  and   (jalignani's 
ten  times  a  day  in  quest  of  the  English  pa- 
pers.    He    dined    drearily    at    Vetbur's,    the 
Trois  Freres,  and  the  Cafe  de  Paris.     His  big 
voice  was  heard  at  every  expensive  dining- 
place    in    Paris,    ordering    "  Toox   kilh/nr   de 
nielli/our  :  vnu.t  navez  ;"  but  he  sent  the  dainti- 
est dishes  away  untasted,  and  would  sit  lor  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  counting  the  toothpicks  in 
the  tiny  bhie  ^ases,  and  thinking  of  Aurora. 
He  ro<ic  dismally  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
and  sat  shivering  in  cafes  chantonis,  listening 
to  songs  that  always  seemed  set  to  the  same 
melody.     He  haunted  the  circuses,  and  was 
wellnigh   in  love  witli    a   fair  manege    rider,  j 
who   had   black  eyes,  and  reminded    him  of 
Aurora;  till,  upon  buying  the  most  powerful  , 
opera -gla.ss   that  the    Rue    de   Rivoli   could  i 
aflbrd,  iu^  discovered  that  the  lady's  face  was  | 
an   inch  deep  in  a  certain  whitewash  called  ! 
hianc  rosali,  and  that  the  chief  gloj-y  of  her 
#yes  were  the  rings  of  Indian  ink  which  sur-  , 
rounded  them.     He  could  have  dashed  that 
double-barrelled  trnth-revealer  to  the  ground, 
and  trodden  the  lenses   to  powder  with   his  I 
heel,  in  his  passion  ul' despair;  better  to  have  t 
been  for  ever  deceived,  to  hare  gone  on  be-  j 
lieving  tliat  woman  to  be  like  Aurora,  and  to  ! 
have  gone  to  that  circus  every  night  until  his  I 
hair  grew  white,  but  not  with  age,  and  until  1 
he  ])incd  away  and  died.  I 

The  party  at  Felden  Woods  was"a  very  i 
joyous  one.  The  voices  of  children  made  the  I 
house  pleasant;  noisy  lads  from  Eton  and  1 
Westminster  clambered  about  the  balustrades  ' 
of  the  staircases,  and  played  battledoor  and  i 
shuttlecock  upon  the  long  stone  terrace.  | 
These  young  people  were  all  cousins  to  An-  1 
rora  Floyd,  and  loved  the  banker's  daughter  j 
with  a  childish  worship,  Avhich  mild  Lucy  ! 
could  never  inspire.  It  was  pleasant  to  Tal-  { 
hot  Bulstrode  to  see  that,  wherever  his  future  | 
wife  trod,  love  and  admiration  waited  upon 
her  footsteps.  He  was  not  singular  in  his  j 
passion  for  this  glorious  creature,  and  it  could  i 
be,  after  all,  no  such  terrible  folly  to  love  one  i 
who  was  beloved  by  all  who  knew  her.  So  1 
the  proud  Cornishman  was  happy,  and  gave  > 
himself  up  to  his  liappiness  without  farther  I 
protests  j 

Did  Aurora  love  him  ?     Did  she  make  him  ' 
duo  return    for   the  passionate  devotion,  the  ' 
blind  adoration  V    She  admired  and  esteemed 
him  ;  she  was  proud  of  him  —  proud  of  that  I 
S 


very  pride  in  his  nature  which  made  him  30 
difierent  to  herself,  and  she  was  too  impulsive 
and  truthful  a  creature  to  keep  this  sentiment 
a  secret  from  her  lover.  She  revealed,  too,  a 
constant  desire  to  please  her  beOi-othed  hus- 
band, suppressing,  at  least,  all  outward  token 
of  the  tastes  that  were  so  unpleasant  to  him. 
No  more  copies  of  Bell'.t  /v?ye  littered  the 
ladies'  morning-room  at  Felden;  and  when 
Andrew  Floyd  asked  Aurora  to  ride  to  meet 
with  him,  his  cousin  refused  the  offer,  which 
would  once  have  been  so  welcome.  Instead 
of  following  the  Croydon  hounds,  Miss  Floyd 
was  content  to  drive  Talbot  and  Lucy  in 
a  basket  carriage  through  the  frost-bespaiigled 
country-side.  Lucy  was  always  the  com- 
panion and  confidante  of  the  lovers;  it  was 
hanl  for  her  to  hear  their  happy  talk  of  the 
bright  future  stretching  far  away  before 
them  —  stretching  down,  down  the  shadowy 
aisles  of  T'iine,  to  an  escutcheoned  tomb  at 
Bulstrode,  where  husband  and  wife  would  Ha 
down,  full  of  years  and  honors,  in  (lie  days  to 
come.  It  was  hard  to  have  to  help  them 
to  plan  a  thousand  schemes  of  pleasure,  in 
which —  Heaven  pity  her  !  —  she  was  to  join  ; 
but  she  bore  her  cross  meekly,  this  pale 
Eliiine  of  modern  days,  and  she  never  told 
Talbot  Bulstrode  that  she  had  gone  mad  and 
loved  him.  and  was  fain  to  die. 

Talbot  and  Aurora  wert;  both  concerned  to 
see  the  pale  cheeks  of  their  gentle  companion  ; 
but  everybody  was  ready  to  ascribe  them  to  a 
cold,  or  a  cough,  or  constitutional  debility,  or 
some  other  bodily  evil,  which  was  to  be  cured 
by  drugs  and  boluses  ;  and  no  one  for  a  mo- 
ment imagined  that  anything  could  possibly 
be  amiss  with  a  young  lady  who  lived  in  a 
luxurious  house,  went  shopping  in  a  carriage 
and  pair,  and  had  more  pocket-money  than 
she  cared  to  spend.  But  the  lily  maid  of 
Astolat  lived  in  a  lordly  castle,  and  had 
doubtless  ample  pocket-money  to  buy  gor- 
geous silks  tor  her  embroidery,  and  had  little 
on  earth  to  wish  for,  and  nothing  to  do, 
wliercby  she  fell  sick  for  love  of  Sir  Lancelot, 
and  pined  and  died. 

Surely  the  secret  of  many  sorrows  lies  in 
this.  How  many  a  grief  has  been  bre<l  of 
idleness  and  leisure  !  How  many  a  Spartan 
youth  has  nur.sed  a  bosom-devouring  (ox  for 
very  lack  of  better  employment!  Do  the 
gentlemen  who  write  the  leaders  in  our  daily 
journals  ever  die  of  grief?  Do  the  barristenj 
whose  names  appear  in  almost  every  case 
reported  in  those  journals  go  mad  for  love 
unrecpiited  ?  Did  the  Lady  with  thk 
i.AMi'  cherish  any  foolish  passion  in  those 
days  and  nights  of  ceaseless  toil,  in  those  long 
watches  of  patient  devotion  far  away  in  the 
j  East?  Do  the  curates  of  over-crowded  par- 
ishes, the  chaplains  of  jails  and  convict-ships, 
the  great  medical  attendants  in  the  wards  of 
hospitals  —  do  they  make  for  themselves  the 
I  griefs   that   kill  ?      Saroly    not      With    (be 


S4 


AURORA  FLOYD, 


busiest  of  us  tliere  may  be  some  holy  mo- 
ments, some  sacred  hour  snatclu'd  from  the 
noise  and  confusion  of  the  revolving  wheel  of 
Life's  machinery,  and  offered  up  as  a  sacrifice 
to  sorrow  and  care ;  but  the  Interval  is  brief, 
and  the  great  wheel  rolls  on,  and  we  have  no 
time  to  pine  or  die. 

So  Lucy  Floyd,  having  nothing  better  to 
do,  nursed  and  made  much  of  her  hopeless 
passion.  She  set  up  an  altar  for  the  skeleton, 
and  worsliipped  at  the  shrine  of  her  grief; 
and  when  people  told  her  of  her  pale  face, 
and  the  family  doctor  wondered  at  the  failure 
of  his  quinine  mixture,  perhaps  she  nourished 
a  vague  hope  tliat  before  the  spring-time  came 
back  again,  bringing  with  it  the  wedding-day 
of  Talbot  and  Aurora,  she  would  have  escaped 
from  all  this  demonstrative  love  and  happi- 
ness, and  be  at  rest. 

Aurora  answered  Lady  Raleigh  Bulstrode's 
letter  with  an  epistle  expressive  of  such  grati- 
tude and  humility,  such  earnest  hope  of  win- 
ning the  love  of  Talbot's  mother,  mingled 
with  a  dim  fearfulucss  of  never  being  worthy 
of  that  atTection,  as  won  the  Cornish  lady's 
regard  for  her  future  daughter.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  associate  the  impetuous  girl  Avith  that 
letter,  and  Lady  Bulstrode  made  an  image  of 
the  writer  that  very  much  differed  from  the 
fearless  and  dashing  original.  She  wrote 
Aurora  a  second  letter,  more  affectionately 
■worded  than  the  first,  and  promised  the 
motherless  girl  a  daughter's  welcome  at  Bul- 
itrode. 

"Will  she  ever  let  me  call  her  '  mother,' 
Talbot  ?"  Aurora  ^sked,  as  she  read  Lady 
Bulstrode's  second  letter  to  her  lover.  "  She 
is  very  proud,  is  she  not — proud  of  your  an- 
cient descent.  My  father  comes  from  a  Glas- 
gow mercantile  family,  and  I  do  not  even 
know  anything  about  my  mother's  relations." 

Talbot  answered  her  with  a  grave  smile. 

•'  She  will  accept  )'ou  for  your  native  worth, 
dearest  Aurora,"  he  said,  "  and  will  ask  no 
foolish  questions  about  the  pedigree  of  such  a 
man  as  Archibald  Floyd  —  a  man  whom  the 
proudest  aristocrat  in  England  might  be  glad 
to  call  his  father-in-law.  She  will  reverence 
my  Aurora's  transpaa-ent  soul  and  candid 
nature,  and  will  bless  me  for  the  choice  I 
have  made." 

"  I  shall  love  her  very  dearly  if  she  will 
only  let  me.  Should  I  have  ever  cared  about 
horse-racing,  and  read  sporting  papers,  if  I 
could  have  called  a  good  woman  '  mother  ?'  " 

She  seemed  to  ask  this  question  rather  of 
herself  than  of  Talbot. 

Complete  as  was  Archibald  Floyd's  satisfac- 
tion at  his  daughter's  disposal  of  her  heart, 
the  old  man  could  not  calmly  contemplate  a 
separation  from  this  idolized  daughter ;  so 
Aurora  told  Talbot  that  she  could  never  take 
up  her  abode  in  Cornwall  during  her  father's 
liietirae ;  and  it  was  finally  arranged  that  the 
young  couple  were  to  spend  half  the  year  in 


London,  and  the  other  half  at  Felden  Woods. 
What  need  had  the  lonely  widower  of  that 
roomy  mansion,  with  its  long  picture-gallery 
and  snug  suites  of  apartments,  each  of  them 
large  enough  to  accommodate  a  small  family? 
What  need  had  one  solitary  old  man  of  that 
retinue  of  servants,  the  costly  stud  in  the 
stables,  the  new-fangled  vehicles  in  the  coach- 
houses, the  hot  -  house  Howers,  the  pines,  and 
grapes,  and  peaches,  cultivated  by  three 
Scottish  gardeners  ?  What  need  had  he  of 
these  things  ?  He  lived  principally  in  the 
study,  in  which  he  had  once  had  a  stormy  in- 
terview with  his  only  child;  the  study  in 
which  hung  the  crayon  portrait  of  Eliza 
Floyd;  the  room  which  contained  an  old- 
fashioned  desk  he  had  bought  for  a  guinea  in 
his  boyhood,  and  in  which  there  were  certain 
letters  written  by  a  hand  that  was  dead,  some 
tresses  of  purple-black  hair  cut  from  the  head 
of  a  corpse,  and  a  pasteboard  ticket,  printed 
at  a  little  town  in  Lancashire,  calling  upon 
the  friends  and  patrons  of  Miss  Eliza  Percival 
to  come  to  the  theatre,  for  her  especial  ben- 
efit, upon  the  night  of  August  20,  18.3  7. 

It  was  decided,  therefore,  that  Felden 
Woods  was  to  be  the  country  residence  of 
Talbot  and  Aurora  till  such  time  as  the  young 
man  should  succeed  to  the  baronetcy  and 
Bulstrode  Castle,  and  be  required  to  live 
upon  his  estate.  In  the  meantime  the  ex- 
Hussar  was  to  go  into  Parliament,  if  the 
electors  of  a  certain  little  borough  in  Corn- 
wall, which  had  always  sent  a  Ijulstrode  to 
Westminster,  should  be  pleased  to  return 
him. 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place  early  in 
May,  and  the  honeymoon  was  to  be  spent  in 
Switzerland  and  at  Bulstrode  Castle.  Mrs. 
Walter  Powell  thought  that  her  doom  was 
sealed,  and  that  she  would  have  to  quit  those 
pleasant  pastures  after  the  wedding-day ;  but 
Aurora  speedily  set  the  mind  of  the  ensign's 
widow  at  rest  by  telling  her  that  as  she.  Miss 
Floyd,  was  utterly  ignorant  of  housekeeping, 
she  would  be  happy  to  retain  her  services 
after  marriage  as  guide  and  adviser  in  such 
matters. 

The  poor  about  Beckenham  were  not  for- 
gotten in  Aurora  Floyd's  morning  drives  with 
Lucy  and  Talbot.  Parcels  of  grocery  and 
bottles  of  wine  often  lurked  beneath  the 
crimson-lined  leopard-skin  carriage-rug ;  and 
it  was  no  uncommon  thing  for  Talbot  to  find 
himself  making  a  footstool  of  a  huge  loaf  of 
bread.  The  poor  were  very  hungry  in  that 
bright  December  weather,  aud  had  all  man- 
ner of  complaints,  which,  however  otherwise 
dissimilar,  were  all  to  be  benefited  by  one  es- 
pecial treatment,  namely,  half-sovereigns,  old 
brown  sherry,  French  brandy,  and  gunpowder 
tea.  Whether  the  daughter  was  dying  of 
consumption,  or  the  father  laid  up  with  the 
rheumatics,  or  the  husband  in  a  raging  fever, 
or  the  youngest  boy  recovering  from  a  fall 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


35 


into  a  copper  of  boiling  water,  the  above- 
named  remedies  seemed  alike  necessary,  and 
were  far  more  popular  than  tlie  chicken-broths 
and  cooling  fever-drinks  prepared  by  the  Fel- 
den  cook."  It  pleased  Talbot  to  see  his  be- 
trothed dispensing  good  things  to  tlie  eager 
recipients  of  her  bounty.  It  pleaseii  him  to 
think  how  even  his  mother  must  have  admired 
this  high-spirited  girl,  content  to  sit  down  in 
close  cottage  chambers  and  talk  to  rheumatic 
old  women.  Lucy  distributed  little  parcels  of 
tracts  prepared  by  JNIrs.  Alexander,  and  flan- 
nel garments  made  by  her  own  white  hands; 
but  Aurora  gave  the  half-sovereigns  and  tlic 
old  sherry ;  and  I  'm  afraid  these  simple  cot- 
tagers liked  the  heii-ess  best,  althougli  they 
were  wise  enough  and  just  enough  to  know 
that  each  lady  gave  according- to  her  means. 

It  was  in  returning  from  a  round  of  these 
charitable  visits  that  an  adventure  befell  the 
little  party  wliicli  was  by  no  means  pleasing 
to  Captain  Bulstrode. 

Aurora  had  driven  farther  than  usual,  and 
it  was  striking  four  a?  her  ponies  dashed  past 
Beckenham  church  and  down  the  hill  toward 
Felden  Woods.  The.  afternoon  was  cold  and 
cheerless ;  light  flakes  of  snow  drifted  across 
the  hard  road,  and  hung  here  and  there  upon 
the  leafless  hedges,  and  there  was  that  inky 
blackness  in  the  sky  which  presages  a  heavy 
fall.  The  woman  at  the  lodge  ran  out  with  her 
apron  over  her  head  to  open  the  gates  as  Miss 
Floyd's  ponies  approacked,  and  at  the  same 
moment  a  man  rose  from  a  bank  by  the  road- 
side, and  came  close  up  to  the  little  carriage. 

He  was  a  broad-shouldered,  stout-built  fel- 
low, wearing  a  shabby  velveteen  cut-away 
coat,  slashed  about  with  abnormal  pockets, 
and  white  and  greasy  at  the  seams  and  elbows. 
His  chin  was  muflled  in  two  or  three  yards  of 
dirty  woollen  comforter,  after  the  fashion  of 
his  kind ;  and  the  band  of  his  low-crownod 
felt  hat  was  ornamented  with  a  short  clay 
pipe,  colored  of  a  n-spectable  blai'kness.  A 
dingy  white  dog,  witli  a  brass  collar,  bow  legs, 
a  short  nose,  bloodshot  eyes,  one  ear,  a  hang- 
ing jaw,  and  a  generally  supercilious  expres- 
sion of  countenance,  rose  from  the  bank  at 
the  same  moment  with  his  master,  and  growl- 
ed ominously  at  the  elegant  vehicle  and  the 
mastiff  Bow-wow  trotting  by  its  side. 

The  .stranger  was  the  same  individual  who 
had  accosted  Miss  Floyd  in  Cockspur  street 
three  months  before. 

I  do  not  know  whether  ]Miss  Floyd  recog- 
nized this  person;  bull  know  that  she  touched 
her  ponies'  ear.'i  with  the  whip,  and  the  spirit- 
ed animals  had  dallied  past  the  man,  and 
through  the  gates  of  Felden,  wlun  he  sprang 
forward,  caught  at  their  heads,  and  stopped 
the  light  basket  carriage,  which  rocked  under 
the  force  of  his  strong  hand. 

Talbot  Bulstrode  leaped  from  the  vehicle, 
heedless  of  his  stiff  leg,  and  caught  the  man 
by  the  collar. 


*'  Let  go  that  bridle !"  he  cried,  lifting  his 
cane;  "  how  dare  you  stop  this  lady's  ponies  ?" 
'•  Because  I  Avanted  to  spealc  to  her,  that  's 
why.     Let  go  my  coat,  will  yer  ?" 

The  dog  made  at  Talbot'.s  legs,  but  the 
young  man  whirled  round  his  cane  and  in- 
flicted .such  a  chastisement  upon  the  snub 
nose  of  that  animal  as  sent  him  into  temporary 
retirement,  howling  dismally. 

"  You  are  an  insolent  scoundrel,  and  I  've 
a  good  mind  to — " 

"You  'd  be  hinserlent,  p'raps,  if  yer  was 
hungry,"   answered  the  man,   with   a  pitiful 
whine,  which  was  meant  to  be  conciliating. 
"  Such  weather  as  this  here  's  all  very  well 
j  for  young  swells   such   as  you.   as   has  your 
'  dawgs,  and  guns,  and 'untin';  but  the  winter's 
I  tryin'  to  a  poor  man's  temper  when  he  's  in- 
;  dustrious  and  willin',  and  can't  get  a  stroke  of 
honest  work  to  do,  or  a  mouthful  of  vittals.    I 
I  only  want  to  speak  to  the  young  lady  :  she 
knows  me  well  enougli." 
"  Which  young  lady  V" 
,      "  Miss  Floyd — the  heiress." 
I      They  were  standing  a  little  way  from  the 
!  pony  carriage.     Aurora  had   risen  from   her 
j  seat  and  flung  the    reins  to  Lucy;  she  was 
I  looking  toward  the  two  men,  pale  and  breath- 
I  less,  doubtless  terrified   for  the  result  of  the 
j  encounter. 

j      Talbot  released  the  man's  collar,  and  went 
I  back  to  Miss  Floyd. 

"  Do  you  know  this  per.son,  Aurora  ?"  he 
!  asked. 
I      "  Yes." 

"  He  is  one  of  your  old  pensioners,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"  He  is ;  do  not  say  anything  more  to  him, 
Talbot.  His  manner  is  rough,  but  he  means 
no  harm.  Stop  with  Lucy  while  I  speak  to 
him." 

Rapid  and  impetuous  in  all  her  movements, 
she  sprang  from  the  carriage,  and  joined  the 
man  beneath  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees 
before  Talbot  could  remonstrate. 

The  dog,  which  had  crawled  slowly  back  to 
his  master's  .«ide,  fawned  upon  her  as  she  ap- 
proached, and  was  driven  away  by  a  fierce 
growl  from  Bow-wow,  who  was  little  likely  to 
brook  any  .such  vulgar  rivalry. 

The  man  removed  his  felt  hat,  and  tugged 
ceremoniously  at  a  tuft  of  sandyisli  hair  which 
ornamented  his  low  forehead. 

"  You  might  have  spoken  to  a  cove  without 
all  this  here  row,  Miss  Floyd,"  he  .said,  in  an 
injured  tone. 

Aurora  looke(l  at  him  indignantly. 
"  Why  did  you   stop  me   here V"  she  .said; 
"  why  could  n't  you  write  lo  me  ?" 

"  Because  wri'tin  's  never  so  much  good  as 
speakin',  and  because  such  young  ladies  as 
you  are  unconuTion  dillicult  to  get  at.  How 
did  I  know  that  your  pa  might  a't  have  put 
his  hand  upon  my  letter,  and  there  "d  have 
been  a  pretty  to  do;  though  I  dessay,  as  for 


3G 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


tbat,  if  I  was  to  go  up  to  the  house,  and  ask 
the  old  gent  for  a  trifio,  he  would  n't  be 
back'ard  in  givin'  it.  I  dessay  he  'd  be 
good  for  a  fi-pun  note,  or  a  tenner,  if  it  came 
to  that." 

Aurora's  eyes  flashed  sparks  of  fire  as  she 
turned  upon  the  speaker.  "  If  ever  you  dare 
to  annoy  my  father,  you  shall  pay  dearly  for 
it,  ^Matthew  Harrison,"  she  said  ;  "  not  that  / 
fear  anythinc;  you  can  say,  but  I  will  not  have 
him  annoyed — I  will  not  have  him  tonnented. 
He  has  borne  enough,  and  suffered  enough, 
Heaven  knows,  without  that.  I  will  not 
have  him  haras^sed,  and  his  best  and  tender- 
ftjit  feelings  made  a  market  of  by  such  as  you. 
I  will  not !" 

She  stamped  her  foot  upon  the  frosty 
ground  as  she  spoke.  Talbot  Bulstrode  saw 
and  wondered  at  the  ge.sture.  He  had  half  a 
mind  to  leave  the  carriage  and  join  Aurora 
and  her  petitioner;  but  the  ponies  were  rest- 
less, and  he  knew  it  would  not  do  to  abandon 
the  n^ins  to  poor  timid  Lucy. 

'•  You  need  n't  take  on  so,  Miss  Floyd,"  an- 
swered the  man,  whom  Aurora  had  addressed 
as  Mattlicw  Harrison ;  "  I  'm  sure  I  want  to 
make  things  pleasant  to  all  parties.  All  I 
ask  is,  that  you  11  act  a  little  liberal  to  a  cove 
wot  s  come  dpwn  in  the  world  since  you  see 
him  last.  Lord,  wot  a  world  it  is  for  ups  and 
downs  !  If  it  had  been  the  summer  season, 
I  'd  have  had  no  needs  to  worrit  you ;  but 
what  's  the  good  of  standin'  at  the  top  of  Re- 
gent street  such  weather  as  this  with  tarrier 
pups  and  such  likes '?  Old  ladies  has  no  eyes 
for  dawgs  in  the  winter ;  and  even  the  gents 
as  cares  for  rat-catchin'  is  gettln'  uncommon 
si^arce.  There  ain't  nothink  doin'  on  the  turf 
whereby  a  chap  can  make  an  honest  penny, 
nor  won't  be,  come  the  Craven  Meetin'.  I  'd 
never  have  come  anigh  you,  miss,  if  I  had  n't 
been  hard  up,  and  I  know  you  '11  act  liberal." 

"Act  liberally!"  cried  Aurora;  "good  Heav- 
ens !  if  every  guinea  I  have,  or  ever  hope  to 
'liavc,  could  blot  out  the  business  that  you 
trade  upon,  I  'd  open  my  hands  and  let  the 
money  run  through  them  as  freely  as  so  much 
water." 

"  It  was  only  good-natured  of  me  to  send 
you  that  'ere  puper,  though,  miss,  eh?"  said 
Air.  Matthew  llarrison,  plucking  a  dry  twio- 
from  the  tree  nearest  him,  and  chewing  it  for 
bis  delectation. 

Aurora  and  the  man  had  walked  slowly  on- 
•yvard  as  they  spoke,  and  were  by  this  time  at 
some  distance  from  the  pony  carrianfe. 

Talbot  Bulstrode  was  in  a  fever  of  restless 
impatience. 

•'  Do  you  know  this  pensioner  of  your  cous- 
in's, Lucy  V"  he  asked. 

"  No,  I  can't  remember  his  face.  I  don't 
think  he  belongs  to  Beckenham," 

"  Why,  if  I  bad  n't  have  sejit  you  that  'ere 
Life,  you  would  n't  have  know'd,  would  you, 
now  ?"  said  the  man. 


"  No,  no,  perhaps  not,"  answered  Aurora. 
She  had  taken  her  porte-monnaie  from  her 
pocket,  and  Mr.  Harrison  was  furtively  re- 
garding the  little  moi'occo  receptacle  with 
glistening  eyes. 

"  Y'ou  don't  ask  me  about  any  of  the  par- 
ticulard  V"  he  said. 

"  No.  What  should  I  care  to  know  of 
them  ?" 

"  No,  certainly,"  answered  the  man,  sup- 
pressing a  chuckle  ;  "  you  know  enough,  if  it 
comes  to  that;  and  if  you  wanted  to  know 
any  more,  I  could  n't  tell  you,  for  them  few 
lines  in  the  paper  is  all  I  could  ever  get  hold 
of  about  the  business.  But  I  always  said  it, 
and  I  always  will,  if  a  man  as  rides  up'ard  of 
eleven  stone  —  " 

It  seemed  as  if  he  Avere  in  a  fair  way  of 
rambling  on  for  ever  so  long  if  Aurora  had 
not  checked  him  by  an  impatient  frown. 
Perhaps  he  stopped  all  the  more  readily  as 
she  opened  her  purse  at  the  same  moment, 
and  he  caught  sight  of  the  glittei'ing  sover- 
eigns lurking  between  leaves  of  crimson  silk. 
He  had  no  very  acute  sense  of  color ;  l)ut  I 
am  sure  that  he  thought  gold  and  crimson 
made  a  pleasing  contrast,  as  he  looJced  at  the 
yellow  coin  in  Miss  Flood's  porte-monnaie. 
She  poured  the  sovereigns  into  her  own 
gloved  palm,  and  then  dropped  the  golden 
shower  into  Mr.  Harrison's  hands,  which  were 
hollowed  into  a  species  of  horny  basin  for  the 
reception  of  her  bounty.  The  great  trunk  of 
an  oak  screened  them  from  the  observation  of 
Talbot  and  Lucy  as  Aurora  gave  the  man  the 
money. 

"  Y'ou  have  no  claim  upon  me,"  she  said, 
stopping  him  abruptly,  as  he  began  a  decla- 
ration of  his  gratitude,  "and  I  protest  against 
your  making  a  market  of  any  past  events 
which  have  come  under  your  knowledge. 
Remember,  once  and  for  ever,  that  I  am  not 
afraid  of  you ;  and  that  if  I  consent  to  assist 
you,  it  is  because  I  will  not  have  my  father 
annoyed.  Let  me  have  the  address  of  some 
place  where  a  letter  may  always  find  you  — 
you  can  put  it  into  an  envelope  and  direct  it 
to  me  here  —  and  from  time  to  time  I  prom- 
ise to  send  you  a  moderate  remittance,  suffi- 
cient to  enable  you  to  lead  an  honest  life,  if 
you  or  any  of  your  set  are  capable  of  doing 
so ;  but  I  repeat,  if  I  give  you  this  money  as 
a  bribe,  it  is  only  for  my  father's  sake." 

The  man  muttered  some  expression  of 
thanks,  looking  at  Aurora  earnestly ;  but  there 
was  a  stern  shadow  upon  that  dark  face  that 
forbade  any  hope  of  conciliation.  She  was 
turning  from  him,  followed  by  the  mastiff, 
when  the  bandy-legged  dog  ran  forward, 
whining,  and  raising  himself  upon  his  hind 
legs  to  lick  her  hand. 

The  expression  of  her  face  underwent  an 
immediate  change.  She  shrank  from  the  dog, 
and  he  looked  at  her  lor  a  moment  with  a  dim 
uncertainty  in  his  bloodshot  eyes;    then,   as 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


37 


conviction  stole  upon  the  brute  mind,  he  bui-st 
into  a  joyous  bark,  frisking  and  capering 
about  Miss  Floyd's  silk  (h-css,  and  imprinting 
dusty  impressions  of  liis  fore  paws  upon  the 
rich  fabric. 

"  The  pore  hanimal  knows  yer,  miss,"  said 
the  man,  deprecatingly ;  "  you  was  never 
'aughty  to  'iui." 

The  mastiff  Bow-wow  made  as  if  he  would 
have  torn  up  every  inch  of  ground  in  Felden 
Woods  at  this  juncture  ;  but  Aurora  quieted 
him  with  a  look. 

"Poor  P)0xcr!"  she  said,  "poor  Boxer!  so 
you  know  me,  Boxer!" 

"Lord,  miss,  there  's  no  knowin'  the  faith- 
fulness of  them  animals." 

"  Poor  Boxerl  I  think  I  should  like  to  have 
you.     Would  you  sell  him,  Harrison  ?" 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  miss,"  he  answered,  "  thank  you  kind- 
ly; there  a'n't  much  in  the  way  of  dawgs  as 
I  'd  refuse  to  make  a  bargain  about.  If  you 
wanted  a  mute  spaniel,  or  a  Russian  setter,  or 
a  Hile  of  Skye,  I  'd  get  him  i'or  you  and  wel- 
come, and  ask  you  nothin'  for  my  trouble; 
but  this  here  bull-terrier  's  father,  mother,  and 
wife,  and  fambly  to  me,  and  there  a'n't 
money  enough  in  your  pa's  bank  to  buy  him, 
miss." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Aurora,  relentingly,  "I 
know  how  faithful  he  is.  Send  me  the  ad- 
dress, and  don't  come  to  Felden  again." 

She  returned  to  the  carriage,  and,  taking 
the  reins  from  Talbot's  hand,  gave  the  restless 
ponies  their  head;  the  vehicle  dashed  past 
Mv.  Matthew  Harrison,  who  stood  hat  in 
hand,  with  his  dog  between  his  legs,  until  the 
party  hati  gone  by.  Miss  Floyd  stole  a  glance 
at  her  lover's  face,  and  saw  that  (Captain  Bul- 
strode's  countenance  wore  its  darkest  expri^s- 
eion.  The  oflicer  kept  sulky  silence  till  they 
reached  the  house,  when  he  handed  the  two 
ladies  from  the  carriage,  and  followed  them 
across  the  hall.  Aurora  was  on  the  lowest 
step  of  the  broad  staircase  before  he  spoke. 

"  Aurora,"  he  said,  "  one  word  before  you 
go  up  stairs." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  a  little  de- 
fiantly ;  she  was  still  very  ])ale,  and  the  fire 
with  which  her  eyes  had  tiashed  upon  Mr. 
Matthew  Harrison,  dog-fancier  and  rat-catch- 
er, had  not  yet  died  out.  of  tho.se  dark  orbs. 
Talbot  Puilstrode  opeiicd  the  door  of  a  long 
chamlxr  \inder  the  picture-gallery  —  half  bil- 
liard-room, half  library,  and  almost  the  pleas- 
anttist  apartmewt  in  the  house  —  and  8too<l 
aside  for  Aurora  to  ])aKS  him. 

The  young  lady  crossed  the  threshold  as 
proudly  as  Marie  Antoinette  going  to  face 
her  plebeian  accusers.     'J'he  room  was  empty. 

Miss  Floyd  .seated  herself  in  a  low  easy- 
ihair  by  one  of  the  two  great  fireplaces,  and 
looked  straight  at  the  blaze. 

•'  I  want  to  ask  you  about  that  man,  Auro- 
ra,"  Ca])tain   Bulstrodc  said,  leaning  over   a 


prie-dlcu  chair,  and  playing  nervously  with 
the  carved  arabesques  of  the  walnut-wood 
frame-work. 

"About  which  man  ?" 

This  might  liave  been  prevarication  in  some; 
from  Aurora  it  was  simply  defiance,  as  Talbot 
knew. 

"  The  man  who  spoke  to  you  on  the  aveniK» 
just  now.  Who  is  he,  and  what  was  his  biis'n 
ness  with  you?"  Here  Captain  Bulstrode  fair- 
ly broke  down.  He  loved  her,  reader,  ht 
loved  her,  remember,  and  he  was  a  coward, 
a  coward  under  the  influence  of  that  most 
cowardly  of  all  passions,  Lovk  —  the  passion 
that  could  leave  a  stain  ujiou  a  Nelson's 
name ;  the  passion  which  might  have  made  a 
dastard  of  the  bravest  of  the  three  hundred 
at  Thermopylae,  or  the  six  hundred  at  Bal<v 
klava.  He  loved  her,  this  unhappy  young 
man,  and  he  began  to  stammer,  and  hesitate, 
and  apologize,  .shivering  tinder  the  angry  light 
in  her  wonderful  eyes.  "  Believe  nio,  Aurora, 
that  I  would  not  for  the  world  play  the  spy 
upon  your  actions,  or  dictate  to  you  the  objects 
of  your  bounty.  No,  Aurora,  not  if  niy  right 
to  do  so  were  stronger  than  it  is,  and  I  v/ere 
twenty  times  your  luisband  ;  but  that  man, 
that  disreputable-looking  fellow  who  .spoke  to 
you  just  now  —  T  don't  think  he  is  the  .sort  oi 
person  you  ought  to  assist." 

"I  dare  say  not,"  she  said;  "I  have  qo 
doubt  I  assist  many  people  who  ought  by 
rights  to  die  in  a  workhouse  or  drop  on  the 
high-road;  but,  you  see,  it'  1  stopped  to  ({ues- 
tion  their  deserts,  they  might  die  ofstarvaliiui 
while  I  was  making  my  incpiiries;  so  perhf-ips 
it  's  better  to  throw  away  a  few  shillings  upon 
some  unhappy  creature  who  is  wicked  cnongh 
to  be  hungry,  and  not  good  enough  to  deserve 
to  have  anything  given  him  to  eat." 

There  was  a  recklessness  about  this  speech 
that  jarred  upon  Talbot,  but  he  could  not 
very  well  take  objection  to  it;  besides,  it  was 
leading  away  from  the  subject  upon  which  ho 
was  so  eager  to  be  satisfied. 

"  But  that  man,  Aurora,  who  is  he  ?" 

"  A  dog-fancier." 

Talbot  shuddered. 

"  T  thought  he  was  something  horrible,"'  he 
murmured;  "but  what,  in  Heaven's  name, 
could  he  want  of  you,  Aurora  '?" 

"  What  most  of  my  petitioners  want,"  she 
answet-ed;  "whether  it  's  the  curate  of  a  new 
chapel  with  medi:pval  decorations,  who  wants 
to  rival  our  Lady  of  Bons-Secours  upon  one  of 
the  hills  about  Norwood;  or  a  lanndre.ss  who 
has  burnt  a  week's  wa.shing,  and  wanta  the 
means  to  make  it  good  ;  or  a  lady  of  fashion, 
who  is  about  to  inaugurate  a  home  for  the  chil- 
dren of  indigent  luciferHuatch  sellers;  or  a  lec- 
turer upon  political  economy,  or  Shelley  and 
'  Byron,  or  Charles  Dickens  ami  the  modern  hu- 
morists, who  is  going  to  hold  forth  at  Croydon; 
they  all  want  the  same  thing  —  money  I  If  I 
t<'ll*the  curate  that  my  principles  are  evangel- 


sa 


AUIlOllA  FLOYD. 


ical,  and  that  I  can't  pray  sincerely  if  there 
are  candlesticks  on  the  altar,  he  is  not  the 
less  glad  of  my  hundred  pounds.  If  I  inform 
the  lady  of  fashion  that  I  have  peculiar  opin- 
ions about  the  orphans  of  lucifer-match  sell- 
ers, and  cherish  a  theory  of  my  own  against 
the  education  of  the  masses,  slie  will  shrug  her 
shoulders  deprecatingly,  but  will  take  care  to 
let  me  know  that  any  donation  I\Iiss  Floyd 
may  be  pleased  to  afford  will  be  equally  ac- 
ceptable. If  I  told  them  that  I  had  commit- 
ted half  a  dozen  murders,  or  that  I  had  a  sil- 
ver statue  of  the  winner  of  last  year's  Derby 
erected  on  an  altar  in  my  dressing-room,  and 
did  daily  and  nightly  homage  to  it,  they 
would  take  my  money  and  thank  me  kindly 
for  it,  as  that  man  did  just  now." 

"  But  one  word,  Aurora  —  does  the  man 
belong  to  this  ncigliborhood  ?" 

'•  No." 

"  How,  then,  did  you  come  to  know  him  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  steadily, 
unilinchingly,  with  a  thoughtful  expression  in 
that  ever-changing  countenance  —  looked  as 
if  she  were  mentally  debating  some  point.  ] 
Then,  rising  suddenly,  she  gathered  her  shawl  i 
about  her  and  walked  toward  the  door.  She 
paused  upon  the  threshold  and  said, 

"  This  cross-questioning  is  scarcely  pleasant. 
Captain  Bulstrode.  If  I  choose  to  give  a  five 
pound  note  to  any  person  who  may  ask  me 
for  it,  I  e.xpect  full  license  to  do  so,  and  I  will 
not  submit  to  be  called  to  account  for  my  ac- 
tions—  even  by  you." 

"Aurora !" 

The  tenderly  reproachful  tone  struck  her  to 
the  heart. 

•'  You  may  believe,  Talbot,"  she  said,  "you 
must  surely  believe  that  I  know  too  well  the 
value  of  your  love  to  imperil  it  by  word  or 
deed  —  vou  must  believe  this." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

lH)OK    .JOHN'    MKLLISH    COMKS    IJACK    AGAIN. 

John  Mellish  grew  weary  of  the  great 
City  of  Paris.  Better  love,  and  contentment, 
and  a  crust  in  a  mansartfe,  than  stalled  o.xen 
or  other  costly  food  in  the  loftiest  saloons  uu 
premier,  and  with  the  most  obse<juious  wait- 
ers to  do  us  homage,  and  repress  so  much  as  a 
smile  at  our  insular  idiom.  He  grew  heartily 
weary  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  the  gilded  rail- 
ings of  the  TuUeries  gardens,  and  tlie  leailess 
trees  behind  tliem.  He  was  weary  of  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde,  and  the  Champs  Ely- 
aees,  and  the  rattle  of  the  hoofs  of  the  troop 
about  iiis  imperial  highness's  carriage  when 
Napoleon  the  Third  or  the  baby  prince  took 
his  airing.  The  plot  was  yet  a  hatching 
which  was  to  come  so  soon  to  a  climax  in  the 
Rue  Lepelletier.  He  was  tired  of  the  broad 
boulevards,  and  the  theatres,  and  the  cafes. 


and  the  glove-shops  —  tired  of  staring  at  the 
jewellers'  windows  in  the  Rue  de  la  Pciix,  pic- 
turing to  himself  the  face  of  Aurora  Floyd 
undt.-r  the  diamond  and  emerald  tiaras  dis- 
played therein.  He  had  serious  thoughts  at 
times  of  buying  a  stove  and  a  basket  of  char- 
coal, and  asphyxiating  himself  quietly  in  the 
great  gilded  saloon  at  Meurice's.  What  was 
the  use  of  his  money,  or  his  dogs,  or  his 
horses,  or  his  broad  acres  ?  All  these  put  to- 
gether would  not  purchase  Aurora  Floyd. 
What  was  the  good  of  life,  if  it  came  to  that, 
since  the  banker's  daughter  refused  to  share 
it  with  him  ?  Remember  that  this  big,  blue- 
eyed,  curly-haired  John  Mellish  had  been  from 
his  cradle  a  spoiled  child  —  spoiled  by  poor 
relations  and  parasites,  servants  and  toadies, 
from  the  first  hour  to  the  thirtieth  year  of  his 
existence  —  and  it  seemed  such  a  very  hard 
thing  that  this  beautiful  woman  should  be  de- 
nied to  him.  Had  he  been  an  Eastern  poten- 
tate, he  would  have  sent  for  his  vizier,  and 
would  have  had  that  official  bowstrung  before 
his  eyes,  and  so  made  an  end  of  it ;  but,  being 
merely  a  Yorkshire  gentleman  and  land-own- 
er, he  had  no  more  to  do  but  to  bear  his  bur- 
den (quietly.  As  if  he  had  ever  borne  any- 
thing quietly!  He  flung  half  the  weight  of 
his  grief  upon  his  valet,  until  that  functionary 
dreaded  the  sound  of  Miss  Floyd's  name,  and 
told  a  fellow-sorvant  in  confidence  that  his 
master  "  made  such  a  howling  about  that 
young  woman  as  he  offered  marriage  to  at 
Brighton  that  there  was  no  bearing  him." 
The  end  of  it  all  was,  that  one  night  John 
]\Iellish  gave  sudden  orders  for  the  striking  of 
his  tents,  and  early  tiie  next  morning  depart- 
ed for  the  Great  Northern  Railway,  leaving 
only  the  ashes  of  his  fires  behind  him. 

'It  was  only  natural  to  suppose  that  Mr. 
Mellish  would  have  gone  straight  to  his  coun- 
try residence,  where  there  was  much  business 
to  be  done  by  him :  foals  to  be  entered  for 
coming  races,  trainers  and  stable-boys  to  be 
settled  with,  the  planning  and  laying  down 
of  a  proposed  tan-gallop  to  be  carried  out, 
and  a  racing-stud  awaiting  the  eye  of  the 
master.  But,  instead  of  going  from  the  Dover 
Railway  Station  to  the  Great  Northern  Ho- 
tel, eating  his  dinner,  and  starting  for  Don- 
caster  by  the  expi'ess,  Mr.  Mellish  drove  to 
the  Gloucester  Coffee-house,  and  there  took 
up  his  quarters,  for  the  purpose,  as  he  said,  of 
seeing  the  Cattle-show.  He  made  a  melan- 
choly pretence  of  driving  to  Baker  street  in 
a  Hansom  cab,  and  roamed  hither  and  thither 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  staring  dismally 
into  the  pens,  and  then  fled  away  jji'ecipi- 
tatcly  from  the  Yorkshire  gentlemen-farmers, 
who  gave  him  hearty  greeting.  He  left  the 
Gloucester  the  next  morning  in  a  dog-cart^ 
and  drove  straight  to  Beckenham.  Archi- 
bald Floyd,  who  kncM'  nothing  of  this  young 
Yorkshireman's  declaration  and  rejection,  had 
given   him    a    hearty   invitation    to    Felden 


AUROBA  FLOYD. 


39 


Woods.  Why  should  n't  he  go  there  ?  Only 
to  make  a  morning  call  upon  the  hospitable 
banker ;  not  to  see  Aurora  ;  only  to  take  a 
few  long  respirations  of  the  air  she  breathed 
before  he  went  bark  to  Yorkshire. 

Of  course  hu  kneAV  nothing  of  Talbot  Bul- 
sti-ode's  happincs:s,  and  it  had  been  one  of 
the  chief  consolations  of  his  exile  to  remem- 
ber that  tliat  gentleman  had  j)ut  forth  in  the 
same  vessel,  and  had  been  shipwrecked  along 
with  him. 

He  was  ushered  into  the  billiard -room, 
where  he  found  Aurora  Floyd  seated  at  a 
little  table  near  the  fij-e,  making  a  pencil 
copy  of"  a  ))roof-i'ngraving  of  one  of  Kosa 
Bonhcur's  ])ictures,  while  Talbot  Bulstrode 
sat  by  her  si<le  preparing  her  pencils. 

We   feel   instinctively  that   tlie  man   who 
cuts  lead-pencils,  or  holds  a  skein  of  silk  upon 
his  outstretched   liands,   or  Ctarries   lap-dogs, 
opera-cloaks,  camp-stools,  or  parasols,  is  "  en- 
gaged.".    Even    John    IMellish    had    learned 
enough  to  know  this.     He  breathed  a  sigh  so 
loud  as  to  be  heard  by  Luey  and  her  motiier, 
seated  by  the   other  fireplace  —  a  sigh  that 
was  on  the  verge  of  a  j^roan  —  and  then  held 
out  liis  hand  to  Miss  Floyd.     Not  to  Talbot 
Bulstrode.     He  had  vague  memories  of  Ro- 
man legends  floating  in  his  brain,  lejiends  of 
superluimau  generosity  and  classic  self-abne- 
gation, but  he  could  not  have  shaken  hands  1 
with    that   dark -haired   young    Cornishman,  I 
though  the  tenure  of  the  Mellish  estate  had  i 
hung  upon  the  sacrifice.     He  could  not  do  it. 
He  seated  himself  a  i'evf  paces  from  Aurora  j 
and  her  lover,  twisting  his  hat  about  in  his  j 
hot,  nervous  hands  until  the  brim  was  well-  ! 
nigh   limp,   and  was  powerless  to  utter  one  I 
sentence,  even  so  much  as  some  poor  pitiful 
remark  about  the  weatiier. 

He  was  a  great  spoiled  baby  of  thirty  years 
of  age;  and  I  am  afraid  that,  if  the  stern 
truth  must  be  told,  he  saw  Aurora  Floyd 
across  a  mist,  that  blurred  and  distorted  the 
brijiht  face  before  his  eyes.  Lmy  Floyd 
came  to  his  relief  by  carrying  him  off'  to  in- 
troduce him  to  her  motiier,  and  kind-hearted 
Mrs.  Alexander  was  delighted  with  his  frank, 
fair  I'iUglish  face.  He  had  the  good  fortune 
to  stand  with  his  back  to  the  light,  so  that 
neither  of  the  ladies  detected  that  foolish 
mist  in  his  blue  eyes. 

Archibahl  Flovd  would  not  hear  of  his  vis- 
itor's returning  to  town  either  that  night  or 
the  next  day. 

"  Yon  must  spend  Christmas  with  us,"  he 
said,  "  and  .see  the  New  Year  in  before  you 
go  back  to  Yorksiiire.  I  have  all  luy  children 
about  me  at  this  sea,son,  and  it  is  the  only 
time  that  Fclden  seems  like  an  old  man's 
home.  Your  friend  Bulstro<le  stops  with  us" 
(Mellish  winced  as  he  receivid  tliis  intelli- 
tjence),  "  and  I  shan't  think  it  friendly  if  you 
refusi^  to  join  our  party." 

What  a  pitiful  coward  this  John  Mellish 


must  have  been  to  accept  the  banker's  invi- 
tation, and  send  the  NeAvton  Pagnell  back  to 
the  Gloucester,  and  suft'er  himself  to  be  led 
away  by  Mr.  Floyd's  own  man  to  a  jileasant 
chamber  a  few  doors  from  the  chintz  rooms 
occuj)ieil  by  Talbot !  But  I  have  said  before 
that  love  is  a  cowardly  passion.  It  is  like  the 
toothache ;  the  bravest  and  strongest  suc- 
cumb to  it,  and  howl  alouil  under  the  torture. 
I  don't  su])pose  the  Iron  Duke  would  have 
been  ashamed  to  own  that  he  objected  to 
having  his  teeth  out.  I  have  heard  of  a  great 
fighting  man  who  could  take  punishment  bet- 
ter than  any  other  of  the  genii  of  the  ring, 
but  who  fainted  away  at  the  first  grip  of  the 
dentist's  forceps.  John  Mellish  consented  to 
stay  at  Felden,  and  he  went  between  the 
lights  into  Talbot's  dressing-room  to  expostu- 
late with  the  captain  upon  his  treachery. 

Talbot  did  his  best  to  console  his  doleful 
visitant. 

"  There  are  more  women  than  one  in  the 
world,"  he  said,  after  John  had  unbosomed 
himself  of  his  grief — he  did  n't  think  this,  the 
hypocrite,  though  he  said  It — '•  there  are  more 
women  than  one,  my  dear  ^Mellish,  and  many 
very  charming  and  estimable  girls,  who  would 
be  glad  to  win  the  aff'ections  of  such  a  fellow 
as  you." 

"I  hate  estimable  girls,"  said  Mr.  Mellish; 
"  bother  my  aff'ections,  nobody  will  ever  win 
my  atfections ;  but  I  love  her,  I  love  that 
beautiful  black -eyed  creature  down  stairs, 
Avho  looks  at  you  with  two  flashes  of  light- 
ning, and  rides  so  well ;  1  love  her,  Bulstrode, 
and  you  told  me  that  she  'd  refused  you,  and 
that  vou  were  going  to  leave  Brighton  by  the 
eight  o'clock  express,  and  you  did  n't,  and 
vou  sneaked  back  and  made  her  a  second 
"oU'er,  and  she  accepted  yon,  and.  damme,  it 
was  n't  fair  l)Iay." 

Having  said  which.  ]\!r.  Mellish  ffung  him- 
self upon  a  chair,  which  creaked  under  his 
weight,  and  fell   to  poking  the  fire  furiously. 

It  wa,s  hard  for  poor  Talbot  to  have  to 
excuse  himself  for  having  won  Aurora's  hand. 
He  could  not  very  well  remind  John  Mellish 
that  if  Mi.ss  Floyd  had  accepted  him,  it  was 
perhaps  because  she  preferred  him  to  the 
lionest  Yorkshireman.  To  John  the  matter 
never  presented  it.self  in  this  light.  The 
spoiU'd  child  had  been  cheated  out  of  that 
toy  above  all  other  toys,  upon  tlic  i)Ossession 
of  which  he  had  .set  his  foolish  heart.  It  was 
as  if  he  had  bidden  for  some  crack  horse  at 
Taltensalls,  in  fair  and  open  competition  with 
a  friend,  wlio  had  gone  bac  k  after  the  sale  to 
outbid  him  in  some  underhand  fashion.  He 
could  not  understand  that  there  had  been  no 
illshonesty  in  Talbot's  conduct,  and  he  was 
hijlhly  indignant  when  that  gentleman  ven- 
tured to  hint  to  him  that  perhajis,  on  the 
whole,  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  have  kept 
away  fiom  Fehlen  Woods. 
'      Talbot  Bulstrode  had  avoided  any  further 


49 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


allusion  to  Mr.  Matthew  Plarrison,  the  dog- 
fancier,  and  this,  the  first  disj)ute  between 
the  lovers,  had  ended  in  the  triumph  of-  Au- 
rora. 

Mis3  Floyd  was  not  a  little  embarrassed  by 
the  presence  of  John  Mellish,  who  roamed 
diseon?olate!y  about  the  big  rooms,  seating 
himself  ever  and  anon  at  one  of  the  tables  to 
peer  into  the  lenses  of  a  stereoscope,  or  to 
take  up  some  gorgeously  bound  volume,  and 
drop  it  on  the  earpi^t  in  gloomy  absence  of 
mind,  and  who  sighed  heavily  when  spoken 
to,  and  was  altogetlier  far  from  pleasant  com- 
pany. Aurora's  warm  heart  was  touched  by 
the  piteous  spectacle  of  this  rejected  lover, 
and  she  sought  him  out  once  or  twice,  and 
talked  to  him  about  his  racing-stnd,  and  asked 
him  how  he  liked  the  hunting  in  Surrey;  but 
John  changed  from  red  to  "white,  and  from 
hot  to  cold,  when  she  spoke  to  him,  and  fled 
away  from  her  with  a  scared  and  ghastly 
aspect,  which  would  have  been  grotesque  had 
it  not  been  so  j)ainfully  real. 

But  by  and  by  John  found  a  more  pitiful 
listener  to  his  sorrows  than  ever  Talbot  Bul- 
Ftrode  had  been,  and  this  gentle  and  compas- 
sionate listener  was  no  other  than  Lucy  Floyd, 
to  -whom  the  big  Yorksbireman  turned  in  his 
trouble.  Did  he  know,  or  did  he  guess,  by 
some  wondrous  clairvoyance,  that  her  griefs 
bore  a  common  likeness  to  his  own,  and  that 
she  was  just  the  one  person,  of  all  others,  at 
Felden_  Woods  to  be  pitiful  to  him  and  pa- 
tient with  him  ?  He  was  by  no  means  proud, 
this  transparent,  boyish,  babyish  good  fellow. 
Two  days  after  his  arrival  at  Felden  he  told 
all  to  poor  Lucy. 

"I  suppose  you  know.  Miss  Floyd,"  he 
said,  "  that  your  cousin  rejected  me  ?  Yes, 
of  course  you  do;  I  believe  she  rejected  Bul- 
strode  about  the  same  time; ;  but  .some  men 
have  n't  a  ha'porth  of  pride;  I  must  say  I 
think  the  captain  acted  like  a  sneak." 

A  sneak  !  Her  idol,  her  adored,  her  demi- 
god, her  dark-haired  and  gray-eyed  divinity, 
to  be  spoken  of  thus  !  She  turned  upon  Mr. 
Mellish  witli  her  fair  cheeks  flushed  into  a 
pale  glow  of  anger,  and  told  him  that  Talbot 
had  a  right  to  do  what  he  had  done,  and  that 
whatever  Talbot  did  was  right. 

Like  most  men  whose  reflective  faculties 
are  entirely  undeveloped,  John  Mellish  was 
blessed  with  a  sulficicntly  rapid  perception — 
a  perception  sharpened  just  then  by  that 
peculiar  sympathetic  prescience,  that  marvel- 
lous clairvoyance  of  which  I  have  spoken  ; 
and  in  those  iew  indignant  words,  and  that 
angry  flush,  lie  read  poor  Lucy's  secret ;  she 
loved  Talbot  Bulstrode  as  he  loved  Aurora  — 
hopelessly.  . 

llovr  he  admired  this  fragile  girl,  who  was 
frightened  of  horses  and  dogs,  and  who  shiv- 
ered if  a  breatli  of  the  winter  air  blew  across 
the  heated  hall,  and  who  yet  bort;  her  bur- 
den with  this  quiet,  uncomplaining  patience; 


while  he,  who  weighed  fourteen  stone,  and 
could  ride  forty  miles  acro.ss  country  with  the 
bitterest  blasts  of  December  blowing  on  his 
face,  was  powerless  to  endure  his  aflliction. 
It  couiforted  him  to  watch  Lucy,  and  to  read 
in  these  faint  signs  and  tokens,  whi<'h  had 
escaped  even  a  mother's  eye,  the  sad  history 
of  her  unrecpiited  affection. 

Poor  John  was  too  good-natured  and  un- 
selfish to  hold  out  for  ever  in  the  dreary  for- 
tress of  despair  wliich  he  had  built  up  for  his 
habitation;  and  on  Christmas  eve,  when  there 
were  certain  rejoicings  at  Felden,  held  in 
especial  honor  of  the  younger  visitors,  he 
gave  way,  and  joined  in  their  merriment,  and 
was  more  boyish  than  the  youngest  of  them, 
burning  his  fingers  with  blazing  iviisins,  suf- 
fering liis  eyes  to  be  bandaged  at  the  will  of 
noisy  little  players  at  Ijlind-man's-buif,  under- 
going ignominions  penalties  in  thiiir  games  of 
forfeits,  performing  alternately  innkeepers, 
sherift^'s  oflicers,  policemen,  clergymen,  and 
justices  in  the  acted  charades,  lifting  the  lit- 
tle ones  who  wanted  to  see  "  de  top  of  de 
Kitmat-tee"  in  his  sturdy  arms,  and  making 
himself  otherwise  agreeable  and  usci'ul  to 
young  people  of  from  three  to  fifteen  years 
of  age,  until  at  last,  under  the  influeni;e  of 
all  this  juvenile  gayety,  and  perhaps  two  or 
three  glasses  of  Moselle,  he  boldly  kissed 
Aui'ora  Floyd  beneath  the  branch  of  mistle- 
toe hanging,  "  for  this  night  only,"  in  the 
great  hall  at  Felden  Woods. 

And  having  done  this,  Mr.  Mellish  fairly 
lost  his  wits,  and  was  "off  his  head"  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening,  making  speeches  to  the 
little  ones  at  the  supper-table,  and  proposing 
Mr.  Archibald  Floyd  and  the  commercial  in- 
terests of  Great  Britain  with  three  times 
three  ;  leading  the  chorus  of  those  tiny  treble 
voices  with  his  own  sonorous  bass,  and  weep- 
ing freely  —  he  never  (juite  knew  why  —  be- 
hind his  table-napkin.  It  was  through  an 
atmosphere  of  tears,  and  sparkling  wines,  and 
gas,  and  hot-house  flowers,  that  he  saw  Aurora 
Floyd,  looking — ah  !  how  lovely,  in  those  sim- 
ple robes  ot"  white  which  so  much  became 
her,  and  Avith  a  garland  of  artificial  holly 
round  her  head.  The  spiked  leaves  and  the 
scarlet  berries  formed  themselves  into  a  ciom'u 
—  I  think,  indeed,  that  a  cheese-plate  would 
have  been  transformed  into  a  diadem  if  Miss 
Floyd  has  been  pleased  to  put  it  on  her  head — 
and  she  looked  like  the  genius  of  Cliristmas  : 
something  bright  and  beautiful — too  beautiful 
to  come  more  than  once  a  year. 

When  the  clocks  were  striking  2  A.  "vi.,  long 
after  the  little  ones  had  been  carried  away 
muffled  up  in  opera-cloaks,  terribly  sleepy, 
and  I  'm  afraid,  in  some  instances,  under  tlie 
influence  of  strong  drink  —  when  the  elder 
guests  had  all  retired  to  lest,  and  the  lights, 
with  a  few  exceptions,  were  fled,  the  garlands 
dead,  and  all  but  Talbot  and  John  Mellish 
departed,  the  two  young  men  walked  up  and 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


41 


down  the  lonji  billiard-room,  in  the  red  glow 
of  the  two  declining  fires,  and  talked  to  each 
other  confidentially.  It  was  the  morning  of 
Christmas  day,  and  it  would  have  been  strange 
to  be  unfriendly  at  such  a  time. 

"  If  you  'd  ihUcn  in  love  with  the  other  one, 
Bulstrode,"  said  John,  clasping  his  old  school- 
follow  by  the  hand,  and  staring  at  him  patheti- 
cally, "  I  could  Iiave  looked  upon  you  as  a 
brother;  she  's  better  suited  to  you,  twenty 
thousand  times  better  adapted  to  you  than  her 
cousin,  and  you  ought  to  have  married  her  — 
in  common  courtesy  —  1  mean  to  say  as  an 
honorable  —  having  very  much  compromised 
yourself  by  your  attentions  —  Mrs.  Wliatsher- 
name — the  companion — Mrs.  Powell — said  so 
— you  ought  to  Iiave  married  her." 

"  Married  her  !  INIarried  whom  ?  "  cried 
Talbot,  rather  savagely,  shaking  off  ins  friend's 
hot  grasji,  and  allowing  I\Ir.  Mellish  to  sway 
backward  upon  the  heels  of  his  varnislied 
boots  in  ratlier  an  alarming  manner.  "  Who 
do  you  mean  ?" 

"  The  sweetest  girl  in  Christendom — exeejjt 
one,"  exclainu'cl  John,  clasping  his  hot  hands 
and  elevating  his  dim  blue  eyes  to  the  ceiling; 
"the  loveliest  gird  in  Christendom,  except  one 
— Lucy  Flovd." 

«'  Lucy  Floyd  !" 

"  Yes,  Lucy ;  the  sweetest  girl  in — " 

"  Who  savs  that  I  ought  to  marrv  Lucy 
Floyd  ?" 

"  She  snys  so — no,  no,  I  don't  mean  that ;  I 
nie;i'),"  said  Mr.  Mellish,  sinking  his  voice  to 
a  solemn  whisper.  "  I  mean  that  Lucy  Floyd 
loves  you  !  She  did  n't  tell  me  so  —  oh,  no, 
bless  your  soul !  she  never  uttered  a  word 
upon  the  sidiject;  but  she  loves  you.  Yes," 
continued  John,  pushing  his  friend  away  from 
him  witii  both  hands,  and  staring  at  him  as 
if  mentally  taking  his  pattern  for  a  suit  of 
clothes.  *'  that  girl  loves  you.  and  has  loved 
you  ail  along.  I  am  not  a  Ibol,  and  I  give 
you  my  word  and  honor  that  Lucy  Floyd  loves 
you." 

"  Not  a  fool !"  crie.rl  Talbot :  "  you  're  worse 
than  a  tool,  Jolin  Mellish — you  're  drunk  !" 

He  turned  upon  his  heel  contemptuously, 
and,  taking  a  candle  from  a  taljie  near  tiie 
door,  iiglited  it,  and  stro<le  out  of  the  room, 

John  stood  rubliing  his  iiaiids  tin'ough  iiis 
curly  hair,  aufl  staring  helplessly  atter  the 
captain. 

"  This  is  the  reward  a  fellow  gets  for  floing 
a  generous  thing,"  he  said,  as  he  tin  usf  iiis 
own  candle  into  tlie  l>urning  coals  ignoring 
any  easier  mode  of  lighting  it.  "  It  's  hard, 
but  I  .su[)po>e  it's  human  nature." 

Talbot  Bnistrode  went  to  bed  in  a  very  bad 
humor.  CouM  it  be  true  tiiat  Lucy  iove<l 
him  V  Coul  1  this  chattering  Yorkshireman 
have  discovi-red  a  se<Tet  wiiich  liad  escaped 
the  captain's  j)euetration  ?  lie  rtMnembt-red 
how,  only  a  short  time  before,  he  had  wisiied 
that  this  fair -haired  girl  miglit  fail  in  love 


with  him,  and  now  all  was  trouble  and  con- 
fusion.    Guinevere  was  lady  of  his  heart,  and 
poor  Elaine  was  sadly  in  the  wa)-.     Mr.  Ten- 
nyson's wondrous  book  hatl  not  been  given  to 
the  Avorld  in  the  year  fifty-seven,  or  no  doubt 
j  poor  Talbot  would  have  compared  himself  to 
1  the  knight  whose  "  honor  rooted  in  dishonor 
,  stood."     Had  he  been  dishonorable  'j*    Had  he 
j  compromised  ■  himself    by    his    attentions    to 
!  Lucy  ?     Had  he  deceived  that  fair  and  gentle 
I  creature  ?     The   down   pillows  in  the  chintz 
I  chamber  gave  no  rest  to  his  weary  head  that 
night;  and   when    lie   fell  asleep  in  the   lat« 
daybreak,  it  was  to  dream  of  horrible  di'eams, 
and  to  see  in  a  vision  Aurora  Floyd  standing 
on  the  brink  of  a  clear  pool  of  water  in  a 
woody  recess  at  Feldcn,  and  pointing  down 
through   its  crystal   surface  to  the  corpse   of 
Lucy,  lying  pale  and  still  amid  lilies  and  clus- 
tering aijuatic  plants,  whose  long  tendrils  en- 
twined themselves  with  the  fair  golden  hair. 

He  heard  the  splasli  of  the  water  in  that 
terrible  dream,  and  awoke,  to  find  his  valet 
breaking  the  ice  in  his  bath  in  the  adjoining 
room.  His  perjjlexities  about  poor  Lucy  van- 
ished in  the  broad  daylight,  and  he  laughed 
at  a  trouble  which  must  have  grown  out  of  his 
own  vanity.  What  was  lie,  tliat  young  ladies 
should  fall  in  love  with  him  y  What  a  weak 
fool  he  nnist  have  been  to  have  believed  for 
one  moment  in  the  drunken  babble  of  John 
Jlellish  !  So  he  ilismisscd  the  image  of  Auro- 
ra's cousin  from  his  mind,  anil  had  eyes,  ears, 
and  thought  only  for  Aurora  herself,  who 
drove  him  to  Beckenham  chuicli  in  her  basket 
carriage,  and  sat  by  his  side  in  tlie  banker's 
great  .square  jiew. 

Alas!  I  fear  lie  iieard  very  little  of  the  ser- 
mon that  was  preached  that  day ;  but,  for  all 
that,  I  declare  that  lie  was  a  good  and  devout 
man  ;  a  man  Avhom  (Jod  had  blessed  with  the 
gift  of  earnest  belief ;  a  man  who  took  all 
lilcssings  from  the  hand  of  God  reverently, 
almost  fearfully;  and  as  he  bowed  his  head  at 
the  end  of  that  Christmas  service  of  rtjoicing 
and  thanksgiving,  he  thanked  Heaven  for  his 
overflowing  cup  of  gladness,  and  prayed  that 
he  might  become  worthy  of  so  much  hap- 
piness. 

He  had  a  vague  fear  tliat  he  was  too  happy 
—  too  much  bound  uji  heart  an<l  soul  in  the 
dark-eyed  woman  by  iils  side.  If  she  were  to 
die!  if  she  were  to  be  false  to  him  I  He 
turned  sick  and  dizzy  at  tl>e  thought;  and 
even  in  tliat  sacred  temple  the  Devil  whisper- 
ed to  him  that  there  were  still  pools,  loaded 
pistols,  and  other  certain  remedies  for  smh 
calamities  as  those,  so  wicked  a-s  well  as  cow- 
ardly a  passion  is  this  terrible  fever,  Love  I 

The  day  wa.s  bright  ami  clear, 'the  light 
unow  whitening  the  ground;  every  line  of 
hedge-top  and  tree<ut  sharply  out  again.«t  the 
cold  blue  of  the  winter  sky.  The  banker 
proposed  that  they  .should  !«end  home  the  car- 
riages, and  walk  down  the  hill  to  Felden ;  no 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Talbot  Bulstrode  oifered  Aurora  his  arm,  only  | 
too  glad  of  the  ohauce  of  a  lete-a-ttle  with  his 
betrothed.  i 

John  Mellish  walked  with  Archibald  Floyd,  [ 
with  whom  the  X6iks])iremau  was  an  especial  j 
favorite  ;  and  Lucy  was  lost  amid  a  jjroup  of  | 
brothers,  sisters,  cousins,  aunts,  and  uncles.      j 

"  We  were  so   busy  all  yesterday  with  the 
little  people,"  said  Talbot,  "  that  I  forgot  to  I 
tell  von,  Aurora,  that  I  had  had  a  letter  from  | 
my  mother."  j 

'Miss  Floyd  looked  up  at  him  with  her  | 
brightest  glance.  She  was  always  pleased  to  j 
Lear  anything  about  l^ady  Bulstrode.  i 

"  Of  course  there  is  very  little  news  in  the 
letter,"  added  Talbot,  '•  for  there  is  rarely 
much  to  tell  at  Bulstrode.  And  yet  —  yes  — 
there  is  one  piece  of  news  which  concerns 
yourself." 

"  AVhich  concerns  me  ?" 

"  Yes.  Y'ou  remember  my  cousin,  Con- 
stance Trevyllian  ?" 

'■  Y-es— ""  : 

"  She  has  returned  from  Paris,  her  educa- 
tion finished  at  last,  and  she,  I  believe,  all- 
accomplisheil,  and  has  gone  to  spend  Christ- 
mas at  Bulstrode.  Good  Heavens,  Aurora, 
■what  is  the  matter  V" 

Nothing  very  much,  apparently.  Her  face 
had  grown  as  white  as  a  sheet  of  letter-paper, 
but  the  hand  upon  his  arm  did  not  tremV)le. 
Perhaps,  had  he  taken  especial  notice  of  it, 
he  would  have  found  it  preternaturally  still. 

"  Aurora,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  Nothing.     Why  do  you  ask  '?" 

"  Your  face  is  as  pale  as — " 

"  It  is  the  cold,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  shivei'- 
ing.  "  Tell  me  about  your  cousin,  this  Miss 
Trevyllian ;  when  did  she  go  to  Bulstrode 
Castle  ?" 

''  She  was  to  arrive  the  day  before  yester- 
day. My  mother  was  expecting  her  when 
she  wrote." 

"  Is  she  a  favorite  of  Lady  Bulstrode  ?" 

"  No  very  especial  favorite.  My  mother 
likes  her  well  enough ;  but  Constance  is 
rather  a  frivolous  girl." 

"  The  day  befoi'c  yesterday,"  said  Aurora  ; 
"Miss  Trevyllian  was  to  arrive  the  day  before 
yesterday.  The  letters  from  Cornwall  are 
delivered  at  Fcldcn  early  in  the  afternoon, 
are  they  not  ?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"  You  will  have  a  letter  from  your  mother 
to-day,  Talbot  V" 

"A  letter  to-day!  oh,  no,  Aurora,  .she 
never  writes  two  days  running ;  seldom  more 
than  once  a  week." 

Miss  Floyd  did  not  make  any  answer  to  this, 
nor  did  her  face  regain  its  natural  hue  during 
the  whole  of  the  homeward  walk.  She  was 
very  silent,  only  replying  in  the  briefest  man- 
ner to  Talbot's  inquiries. 

"  I  am  sure  that  j-ou  are  ill,  Aurora,"  he 
said,  as  they  ascended  the  terrace-steps. 


"  I  am  ill." 

"But,  dearest,  what  is  it?  Let  me  tell 
Mrs.  Alexander,  or  Mrs.  Powell.  Let  me  go 
back  to  Beckenham  for  the  doctor." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  mournful  earnest- 
ness in  her  eyes. 

"  My  foolish  Talbot,"  she  said,  "  do  you  re- 
member what  Macbeth  said  to  Jus  doctor  ? 
There  are  diseases  that  can  not  be  ministered 
to.  Let  me  alone  ;  you  will  know  soon  enough 
— you  will  know  very  soon,  I  dare  say." 

"  But,  Aurora,  what  do  you  mean  by  this? 
What  can  there  be  upon  your  mind  ?" 

"  Ah  !  what  indeed!  Let  me  alone,  let  me 
alone,  Captain  Bulstrode." 

He  had  caught  her  hand,  but  she  broke 
from  him,  and  ran  up  the  staircase  in  the 
direction  of  her  own  apartments. 

Talbot  hurried  to  Lucy  with  a  pale,  fright- 
ened face. 

"  Your  cousin  is  ill,  Lucy,"  he  said ;  "  go 
to  her,  for  Heaven's  sake,  and  see  what  is 
wrong." 

Lucy  obeyed  immediately  ;  but  she  found 
the  door  of  Lliss  Floyd's  i-oom  locked  against 
her  ;  and  when  she  called  to  Aurora  and  im- 
plored to  be  admitted,  that  young  lady  cried 
out, 

"  Go  away,  Lucy  Floyd ;  go  away,  and 
leave  me  to  myself,  unless  you  want  to  drive 
me  mad  I" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HOW    TAL150T    BULSTRODK    SPENT    HIS 
CHRISTMAS. 

There  was  no  more  happiness  for  Talbot 
Bulstrode  that  day.  He  wandered  from  room 
to  room  till  he  was  as  weary  of  that  exercise 
as  the  young  lady  in  Monk  Lewis's  Castle 
Spectre;  he  roamed  forlornly  hither  and 
thither,  hoping  to  find  Aurora,  now  in  the 
billiard-room,  now  in  the  draAving-room.  He 
loitered  in  the  hall  upon  the  shallow  pretence 
of  looking  at  barometers  and  thermometers, 
in  order  to  listen  for  the  opening  and  shutting 
of  Aurora's  door.  All  the  doors  at  Felden 
Woods  were  perpetually  opening  and  shutting 
that  afternoon,  as  it  seemed  to  Talbot  Bul- 
strode. He  had  no  excuse  for  passing  the 
doors  of  Miss  Floyd's  apartments,  tor  his  own 
rooms  lay  at  the  opposite  angle  of  the"  house  ; 
but  he  lingered  on  the  broad  staircase,  look- 
ing at  the  furniture -pictures  upon  the  walls, 
and  not  seeing  one  line  in  these  Wardour- 
street  productions.  He  had  hoped  that  Aurora 
would  appear  at  luncheon ;  but  that  dismal 
meal  had  been  eaten  without  her  ;  and  the 
merry  laughter  and  pleasant  talk  of  the  fam- 
ily assembly  had  sounded  far  away  to  Talbot's 
ears  —  far  away  across  some  wide  ocean  of 
doubt  and  confusion. 

He  passed  the  afternoon  in  this  wretched 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


43 


manner,  unobserved  by  any  one  but  Lucy, 
who  watched  him  furtively  from  her  distant 
seat,  as  he  roamed  in  and  out  of  the  drawino- 
room.  Ah  !  how  many  a  man  is  watched  by 
loving  eyes  Avhose  b'jjht  he  never  sees!  liow 
many  a  man  is  cared  for  by  a  tender  heart 
whose  secret  he  never  learns  !  A  little  after 
dusk,  Talbot  Bulstrode  went  to  liis  room  to 
dress.  It  was  some  time  before  tlie  bell  would 
ring;  but  he  would  dress  early,  he  thought,  so 
as  to  make  sure  of  being  in  the  drawing-room 
when  Aurora  came  down. 

He  took  no  light  with  him,  for  there  were 
always  wax  candles  upon  the  chimney-piece 
in  his  room. 

It  was  almost  dark  in  that  pleasant  chintz 
chamber,  tor  the  fire  had  been  lately  replen- 
ished, and  there  was  no  blaze  ;  but  he  could 
just  distinguish  a  white  natch  u"pon  the  green 
clotli  cover  ot'  the  writing- talilc.  Tlie  white 
patch  was  a  letter.  He  stirred  the  black 
mass  of  coal  in  tlie  grate,  and  a  bright  llame 
went  dancing  up  the  chinniey,  making  the 
room  as  ligiit  as  day.  He  took  the  letter  in 
one  hand,  while  he  lighted  one  of  the  candles 
on  the  chimney  -  piece  with  tUe  other.  The 
letter  was  from  his  mother.  Auroia  Floyd 
had  told  him  tiiat  he  would  receive  such  a  let- 
ter. Wliat  did  it  all  mean  ?  Tlie  gay  lioivers 
and  birds  upon  tiie  papered  walls  spun  round 
him  as  he  tore  opi-n  tlie  enveIoj)e.  I  firmly 
believe  that  we  have  a  semi-sup(>rnatural  pre- 
science of  the  coming  of  all  misfortune  ;  a 
prophetic  instinct,  which  tells  us  that  such  a 
li'tter,  or  such  a  messenger,  carries  evil 
tidings.  Talliot  Bulstrode  had  tliat  prescience 
as  lie  unfolded  the  jjaper  in  his  hands.  The 
horrible  trouble  was  before  him  —  a  brooding 
shadow,  witli  a  vfiied  face,  gliastly  and  unde- 
fined ;  but  it  was  ihare. 

"  My  dkar  Tamjot — T  know  the  letter  I 
am  about  to  write  will  distress  and  perplex 
you  ;  but  my  duty  lies  not  the  less  ])lamly  be- 
fore me.  I  fear  that  your  heart  is  much  in- 
volved in  your  engtagement  to  Miss  Floyd."' 
The  evil  tidings  concerned  Aurora,  then  ; 
tlie  brooding  sha<low  was  slowly  lifting  its 
dark  veil,  and  the  face  of  her  he  loved  best  on 
earth  appeared  behin<l  it.  "  But  I  know," 
continued  that  pitiless  letter,  "that  the  sense 
of  honor  is  the  strongest  part  of  your  nature, 
and  tliat,  however  you  may  have  loved  this 
girl"  (()  God,  she  spoke  of  his  love  in  the 
past!)  "you  will  not  sufler  yourself  to  be 
cntra]i])ed  into  a  false  position  through  any 
weakness  of  affection.  Tliere  is  some  mys- 
tery about  the  life  of  Aurora  Floyd." 

This  si-ntcnce  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
first  prigi-;  aucl,  before  Talbot  Bulstrode's 
shaking  liand  eould  turn  the  leaf,  evi-ry  doubt, 
every  fear,  every  presentiment  he  had  ever 
felt  Hashed  ba<'k  upon  him  with  preternatural 
distinclness. 

'•  Constance  Trevyllian  came  here  yester- 
dav  ;  anil  vou  mav  imagine  that  in  the  course 


i  of  the  evening  you  were  spoken  of,  and  your 
;  engagement  discussed." 

A  curse  upon  their  frivolous  women's  gos- 
sip!     Talbot  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand, 
;  and  was  about  to  fiing  it  from  him;  but,  no, 
I  it  7«M.s7  be  read.     The  shadow  of  doubt  must 
I  be  facetl,  and  wrestled  with,  and  vancjui^hed, 
or  tliere  was  no  more  peace  upon'  this  earth 
I  for  liim.     He  went  on  reading  the  letter. 
I       ''  1    told    Constance   that    Miss   Floyd   had 
been  educated  in  the  Rue  St.  Dominique,  and 
j  asked  if  she  remembered  her.     'What!' she 
I  said,  '  is  it  the  Miss  Floyd  whon>  there  was 
such  a  fuss  about  ?  the  Miss  Floyd  who  ran 
'  away  from  school  ?'     And  then  slie  told  me, 
Talbot,  that  a  Miss  Floyd  was  brought  to  the 
;  Demoiselles  Lespard  by  her  father  last  June 
j  twelvemonth,  and  that  less  than  a  fortnight 
I  after  arriving  at  the  school  she  disappeared ; 
:  her  disappearance,  of  course,  causing  a  great 
sensation  and  an  immense  devil  of  talk  among 
i  tlie  other  pupils,  as  it  was  said  she  had  rtin 
aioay.    The  matter  was  hushed  up  as  much  as 
i  possible  ;  hut  you  know  that  girls  will  talk, 
\  and  from  what  Constance  tells  me,  I  iuiagine 
I  that  very  unpleasant  things  were  said  about 
,  Miss  Floyd.     Now  you  .say  that  the  banker's 
daughter  only   returned    to    Felden    Woods 
I  in    September   last.      Where   was  she   in   the 
iiittrculf" 

He  read  no  more.  One  glance  told  him 
that  the  rest  of  the  letter  consisted  of  moth- 
erly cautions  and  admonitions  as  to  how 
he  was  to  act  in  this  perplexing  business. 

He  thrust  the  crum[)led  paper  into  his  bos- 
om, hnd  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  hearth. 

It  was  so,  then  !     There  was  a  mystery  in 
the  life  of  this  woman.     The  doubts  and  sus- 
picions, the  undefined  fears  and  per])l<'xities, 
which   had  held   him   back    at  the  lirst,  and 
caused  him  to  wrestle  against  his  love,  had 
not  been  unfounded.     There  was  good  reason 
for  them  all,  amjjle  reason  for  them,  as  there 
is  for  every  instinct  which  Providence  puts 
into  our  hearts.     A  black  wall  rose  up  round 
about  him,  and  shut  him   for  ever  from  the 
woman  he  loved;  this  woman  whom  he  loved 
so   far   from   wi.se!y,   so   fearfully    well ;    this 
woman,  for  whom  he  had  thanked  (Jod  in  the 
church  only  a  fev/  hours  befoie.    Ami  she  was 
to   have   been    his   wife  —  the  mother  of  his 
children  perhaps.     He  clasped  his  cold  hands 
over   hi.s   face,    and    sobbe<l   aloud.     Do  not 
despise  him  for  those  dro])s  of  anguish  :  they 
were  the  virgin  tears  of  hi.o  manhood.    Never 
since  infancy  ha<l  his  eyes  been  wet  before. 
I  Goii  lorbid  that  such  teari*  as  those  ishnnld  be 
I  shed  more  than  once  in  a  lifetime.  Tlie  agony 
I  of  that  moment  was  not  to  be  lived  through 
;  twice.     The   hoarse   sobs    rent   and    tore  his 
;  breast  as  if  his  flesh  had  been  hacked  by  a 
rn^ty  sword;  and,  when  he  took  his  wet  hamls 
i  from  liis  fa<e,  he  wondered   that  they  were 
j  not  red,  for  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had 
I  been  weeping  blood.     What  §hould  he  do  ? 


44 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Go  to  Aurora,  and  ask  her  the  meaning  of 
that  letter  ?  Yes ;  the  course  was  plain 
enough.  A  tumult  of  hope  rushed  l)ack  upon 
liini,  and  swept  away  liis  terror.  Why  was 
he  so  ready  to  doubt  her  ?  Wiiat  a  pitiful 
coward  he  was  to  suspect  her — to  suspect  this 
girl,  whose  transparent  soul  had  been  so 
I'rccly  unveiled  to  him  ;  whose  every  accent 
was  truth  !  For,  in  his  intercourse  with  Au- 
rora, the  quality  which  he  had  learned  most 
to  reverence  in  lier  nature  was  its  sublime 
candor.  He  almost  laughed  at  the  recollec- 
tion of  his  mother's  solemn  letter.  It  was 
so  like  these  simple  country  people,  whose 
lives  had  been  bounded  by  the  narrow  limits 
of  a  Cornish  village  —  it  was  so  like  them  to 
make  mountains  out  of  the  veriest  mole-hills. 
What  was  there  .'^o  wonderful  in  that  which 
hud  occurred  V  The  spoiled  child,  the  wiUul 
heiress,  had  grown  tired  of  a  foreign  school, 
and  had  run  away.  Her  father,  not  wishing 
the  girlish  escapade  to  be  known,  had  placed 
her  somewhere  else,  and  had  kept  her  folly  a 
secret.  What  was  there  from  first  to  last 
in  the  whole  affair  tliat  was  not  perfectly 
natural  and  ])rol)abIe,  the  exceptional  circum- 
stances of  the  case  duly  co::sidered  ? 

He  could  fancy  Aurora,  with  her  cheeks  in 
a  flame,  and  her  eyes  flashing  lightning,  Hing- 
ing a  page  of  blotted  exercises  into  the  face 
of  her  French  master,  and  running  out  of  the 
school -room  amid  a  tumult  of  ejaculatory 
babble.  The  beautiful,  impetuous  creature  ! 
There  is  nothing  a  man  can  not  admire  in  the 
woman  he  loves,  and  Talbot  was  half  inclined 
to  admire  Aurora  for  having  run  away  from 
school. 

The  first  dinner-bell  had  rung  during  Cap- 
tain Kulstrode's  agony;  so  the  corridors  and 
rooms  were  deserted  when  he  went  to  look 
for  Aurora,  with  his  mother's  letter  in  his 
breast. 

She  was  not  in  the  billiard-room  nor  the 
drawing-room,  but  he  found  her  at  last  in  a 
little  inner  chamber  at  the  end  of  the  house, 
with  a  bay-windokv  looking  out  over  the  park. 
The  room  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  shaded 
lamp,  and  IMiss  Floyd  was  seated  In  the  \ 
uncurtained  window,  with  her  elbow  resting 
on  a  cushioned  ledge,  looking  out  at  the  steel- 
cold  wintry  sky  and  the  whitened  landscape. 
She  was  dressed  in  black,  her  face,  neck, 
and  arms  gleaming  marble-white  against  the 
sombre  liuo  of  her  dress,  and  her  attitude  was 
as  .still  as  that  of  a  statue. 

She  neither  stirred  nor  looked  round  when 
Talbot  entered  the  room. 

"  My  dear  Aurora,"  he  said,  "  I  have  been 
looking  for  you  everywhere." 

She  shivered  at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

"  You  wan  fed  to  see  me  ?" 

"  Yt;s,  dearest.  I  want  you  to  explain  some- 
thing to  me.  A  foolish  business  enough,  no 
doubt,  my  darling,  and,  of  <.'ourse,  vcry^easily 
explained;    but,  as  your  future   husband,   I 


have  a  right  to  ask  for  an  explanation ;  and  I 
know,  1  know,  Aurora,  that  you  will  give  it 
In  all  candor." 

Site  did  not  speak,  although  Talbot  paused 
for  some  moments,  awaiting  her  answer. 
He  could  only  see  her  profile,  dimly  lighted 
by  the  wintry  sky.  He  could  not  see  the 
nuite  pain,  the  white  anguish  in  that  youthful 
face. 

"  1  have  had  a  letter  from  my  mother,  and 
there  is  something  in  that  letter  wliich  I  wish 
you  to  explain.  Shall  I  read  it  to  you, 
dearest  V" 

His  voice  faltered  upon  the  endearing 
expression,  and  he  remembered  afterwai-d 
that  it  was  the  last  time  he  had  ever  ad- 
dressed her  with  a  lover's  tendei'uess.  The 
day  came  when  she  had  need  of  his  com-- 
passion,  and  \\'hen  he  gave  it  freely;  but  that 
moment  sounded  the  death-knell  of  Love.  In 
that  moment  the  gulf  yawned,  and  the  cliffs 
were  rent  asunder. 

'•  Shall  I  read  you  the  letter,  Aurora  ?" 

"  If  you  please." 

He  took  the  crumpled  epistle  from  his 
bosom,  and,  bending  over  the  lamp,  read  it 
aloud  to  Aurora.  He  fully  expected  at  every 
sentence  that  she  would  interrupt  him  Avith 
some  eager  explanation ;  but  she  was  silent 
until  he  had  finished,  and  even  then  she  did 
not  speak. 

"  Aurora,  Aurora,  is  this  true  V" 

"  Perfectly  true." 

"  But  why  did  you  run  away  from  the  Rue 
St.  Dominique  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell  you."' 

'•  And  where  were  you  between  the  month 
of  June  in  the  year  fifty-six  and  last  Sep- 
tember V" 

"  I  can  not  tsll  you,  Talbot  Bulstrode. 
This  is  my  secret,  which  I  can  not  tell 
you." 

"  You  can  not  tell  me  !  There  is  upward  of 
a  year  missing  from  your  life,  and  3'ou  can  not 
tell  me,  your  betrothed  husband,  what  you  did 
with  that  year?" 

"  I  can  not." 

"  Tlien,  Aurora  Floyd,  you  can  never  be  my 
wife." 

He  thought  that  she  would  turn  upon  him, 
sublime  in  her  indignation  and  fury,  and  that 
the  explanation  he  longed  for  would  burst 
from  her  lips  in  a  passionate  torrent  of  angry 
words  ;  but  she  rose  from  her  chair,  and, 
tottering  toward  him,  fell  upon  her  knees  at 
his  feet.  No  other  ac-tion  could  have  struck 
such  terror  to  his  heart.  It  seemed  to  him  a 
confession  of  guilt.  But  what  guilt  V  what 
guilt  ?  AVhat  was  the  dark  secret  of  this 
young  creature's  brief  life  ? 

"  Talbot  Bulstrode,"  she  said  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice,  which  cut  him  to  the  soul,  "  Talbot 
Bulstrode.  Heaven  knows  how  often  I  have 
foreseen  and  dreaded  this  hour.  Had  I  not 
been  a  coward,  I  sliould  have  anticipated  this 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


45 


explanation.  But  I  thought  —  I  thouglit  tlio. 
occasion  miglit  never  come,  or  that,  wlion  it 
did  come,  you  would  be  generous — and — tru.st 
me.  If  you  can  trust  me,  Talbot — if  you  can 
believe  that  this  secret  i.s  not  utterly  shame- 
ful—" 

"  Not  utterly   shameful  I"   lie  cried.      "  O 
God,    Aurora,   tliat  I  should  ever  hear  you 
talk  like  this!     Do  you  think  there  are  any  j 
degrees  in  t'.iese  things  ?     There  must  be  710  i 
secret  between  my  wife  and  me  ;  and  the  day  j 
that  a   secret,  or  the  shadow  of  one,  arises  j 
between  us,  must  see  us  part  for  ever.     Rise  j 
from  your  knees,  Aurora;  yovi  are  killing  me  ! 
with  this  shame  and  humiliation.     Rise  from  j 
your  knees;  and  if  we  are  to  part  this  mo-  1 
mcnt,  tell  me,  tell  me,  for  pity's  sake,  that  I 
have  no  need    to  despi.se   myself  for  having 
loved  you  with  an  intensity  which  has  scarcely 
b<*en  manly." 

She  did  not  obey  him,  but  sank  lower  in  her 
half  kneeling,  half  crouching  attitude,  her 
face  buried  in  her  hands,  and  only  the  coils 
of  her  black  hair  visible  to  Captain  Bul- 
strode. 

"  I  was  motherless  from  my  cradle,  Talbot," 
she  said,  in  a  half  stifled  voice.  "  Have  pity 
upon  me." 

'' Pity  I"  echoed  the  captain  ;  "/>//?/.'  Why 
do  you  not  ask  me  ior  Justice  f  One  question, 
Aurora  Floyd,  one  more  (piestion,  perhaps  tlie 
last  I  evir  may  ask  of  you — Does  your  father 
know  wilt  you  lefr  that  school,  and  where  you 
were  during  lh:it  twelvemonth  V" 
"  He  does." 

'•  Thank  (jod,  at  least,  for  that !  Tell  me, 
Aurora,  then,  oidy  tell  mc  this,  and  I  will 
believe  your  simple  word  as  1  would  the  oath 
of  another  woman — tell  me  it'  he  approved  ol' 
your  motive  in  leaving  that  school  —  if  he 
approved  of  the  manner  in  which  your  life 
was  spent  during  that  twelvemonth.  If  yon 
can  say  yes,  Aurora,  there  shall  be  no  more 
(piestions  between  us,  and  1  can  make  you, 
without  fear,  my  loved  and  honored  wile." 

"I  ':an  not,"  she  answered.  "1  am  only 
nineteen,  but  within  the  two  last  years  of  my 
life  1  have  done  enough  to  break  my  father  s 
heart  —  to  break  the  Iieart  of  the  dearest 
father  that  evt-r  breathed  the  breath  of  life." 
•'  Tiien  all  is  over  between  us.  God  i'orgive 
you,  Aurora  Floyd ;  but,  by  your  own  con- 
i'ession,  jou  are  no  (it  wit'e  for  an  honorable 
man.  I  shut  my  mint!  against  all  foul  sus- 
picions ;  but  the  past  life  of  my  wife  must  be 
rt  while,  unblemished  page,  which  all  the 
world  may  be  free  to  read." 

He  walked  toward  the  door,  and  then,  re- 
turning, assisted  the  wretched  girl  to  lii^e, 
and  led  her  back  to  her  seat  by  the  window, 
courteously,  as  if  she  had  been  his  partner  at 
a  l)all.  Their  hands  met  with  as  icy  a  touch 
as  the  hands  of  two  corpses.  Ah  !  how  miicii 
there  wa.s  of  death  in  that  touch!  How  mucli 
had  died  between  those  two  within  the  last 


few  hours — hope,  confidence,  .security,  love, 
happiness,  all  that  makes  life  worth  the 
holding. 

Talbot  Bnlstrode  paused  npon  the  thresh- 
old of  the  little  chamber,  and  .■<poke  once 
more. 

"  I  shall  have  left  Felden  in  half  an  hour, 
Miss  Floyd."  he  said;  "it  will  be  better  to 
allow  your  father  to  suppose  that  the  disa- 
greement between  us  has  arisen  from  some- 
thing of  a  trilling  nature,  and  that  my  dis- 
missal has  come  from  you.  I  shall  write  to 
Mr.  Floyd  from  London,  and,  if  you  please,  I 
will  so  word  my  letter  as  to  lead  him  to  think 
this." 

"You  are  very  good,"  she  answered.  "Yes, 
1  would  rather  that  he  should  think  that.  It 
may  sf)are  him  pain.  Heaven  knows  1  have 
cause  to  be  grateful  for  anything  that  will  do 
that." 

Talbot  bowed,  and  left  the  room,  closing 
the  door  behind  him.  The  closing  of  that 
door  had  a  dismal  sound  to  his  ear.  He 
thought  of  some  frail  young  creature  aban- 
doned by  her  sister-nuns  in  a  living  tomb. 
He  thought  that  he  would  rather  have  left 
Aurora  lying  rigidly  beautiful  in  her  colhn 
than  as  he  was  leaving  her  to-day. 

Tiie  jangling,  jarring  sound  of  the  second 
dinner-bell  clanged  out  as  he  went  from  the 
semi-obscurity  of  the  corridor  into  the  glaring 
gas-light  of  the  billiard-room.     He  met  Lucy 
Floyd  coming  toward  him  in  her  rustling  silk 
dinner-dress,  with  fringes,  and  laces,  and  rib- 
bons,   and    jewels    fluttering   and  s])arkling 
about  her,  and  he  almost  hated  her  for  look- 
ing so  bright  and  radiant,  reniendicring,  as  he 
did,  the  ghastly  face  of  the  stricken  creature 
he  had  just  left.     Wc  are  o])t  to  be  horribly 
i  unjust  in  the  hour  of  supreme  trouble,  and  I 
i  fear  that  if  any  one  had  had  the  temerity  to 
;  ask  Talbot  I5ulstrode's  opinion  of  Lucy  Floyd 
just  at  that  moment,  the  captain  would  have 
1  declared   her   to   be  a  mass  of  fiivolity  and 
!  all'cctation.   If  you  discover  the  worthiessness 
j  of  the  oidy  woman  you  lore  upon  earth,  you 
will  perhaps  be  apt   to  feel  maliciously  dis- 
posed towanl  the  many  estimable  people  about 
you.     You  are   savagely  inclined   when  you 
remember  tliat  they  lor  whom  you  care  noth- 
ing are    so   good,  while   she    on   whom   you 
!  set  your  soul  is  so  wicked.     The  vessel  which 
vou  freighted  with  every  hope  of  your  hejirt 
i  has  gone  down,  and  you   are  angry  at  the 
very    sight    of    those    other    ships    riding   ko 
:  gallantly  before  the  breeze.    I^ucy  re(;oiled  at 
the  a^^pect  of  the  young  man's  face. 

••  What  i.5  it  V"  she  aske<l ;  "  what  has  hap- 
I  pcned.  Captain  Hul.^trode  V" 

"Nothing;  I  have  received  a  letter  from 
:  CornwaJi  which  obliges  me  to — " 

His  hollow  Aoice  died  away  into  a  hoar.*- 
whisper  belure   he  eould    finish  the  sentence. 
"  Lady  Bnlstrode — or  Sir  John — is  ill,  pcr- 
'  haps  '.•'"  hazarded  Lucy. 


46 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Talbot  pointod  to  his  white  lips  and  shook 
his  head.  The  gesture  might  mean  any- 
thing. He  couKl  not  speak.  The  hall  was 
full  of  visitors  and  children  going  into  din- 
ner. The  little  people  were  to  dine  with 
their  S'-niors  that  day,  as  an  especial  treat 
and  privilege  of  the  season.  The  iloor  of  the 
dining-room  was  open,  and  Talbot  saw  the 
gray  head  of  Archibald  Floyd  dimly  visible 
at  the  end  of  a  long  vista  of  lights,  and  sil- 
ver, and  glass,  and  evergreen.s.  The  old  man 
had  his  nephews  and  nieces,  and  their  chil- 
dren grouped  about  him,  but  the  place  at 
his  right  hand,  the  place  Aurora  was  meant 
to  fill,  was  vacant.  Captain  Bulstrode  turned 
away  from  that  gayly-lighted  scene  and  rnn 
up  the  staircase  to  his  room,  where  he  found 
his  servant  waiting  with  his  master's  clothes 
laid  out,  wondering  why  he  had  not  come  to 
dress. 

The  man  fell  back  at  the  sight  of  Talbot's 
face,  ghastly  in  the  light  of  the  wax  candles 
on  the  dressing-table. 

"  I  <am  going  away,  Philman,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, speaking  very  fast,  and  in  a  thick,  indis- 
tinct voice.  "  I  am  going  down  to  Cornwall 
by  the  express  to-night,  if  I  can  get  to  town 
in  time  to  catch  the  train.  Pack  my  clothes 
and  come  after  me.  You  can  join  me  at  the 
Paddington  Station.  I  shall  walk  up  to  Beck- 
enham,  and  take  the  first  train  for  town. 
Here,  give  this  to  the  servants  for  me,  will 
you  V" 

He  took  a  confused  heap  of  gold  and  silver 
from  his  pocket,  and  dropped  it  into  the  man's 
hand. 

'*  Nothing  wrong  at  Bulstrode,  I  hope,  sir?" 
said  the  servant.     "Is  Sir  John  ill?" 

"  No,  no ;  I  've  had  a  letter  from  my  mother 
—  I — you  '11  find  me  at  the  Great  Western." 

He  snatched  up  his  hat,  and  was  hurrying 
from  the  room;  but  the  man  followed  him 
with  his  great-coat. 

"  You  '11  catch  your  death,  sir,  on  such  a 
night  as  this,"  the  servant  said,  in  a  tone  of 
respectful  remonstrance. 

The  banker  was  standing  at  the  door  of 
the  dining-room  when  Talbot  crossed  the  hall. 
He  was  telling  a  servant  to  look  for  his  daugh- 
ter. 

"  We  are  all  waiting  for  Miss  Floyd,"  the 
old  man  said ;  "  we  can  not  begin  dinner 
without  Miss  Floyd." 

Unobserved  in  the  confusion,  Talbot  opened 
the  great  door  softly,  and  let  himself  out  into 
the  cold  winter's  night.  The  long  terrace 
was  all  ablaze  with  the  lights  in  the  high, 
narrow  windows,  as  upon  the  night  whence 
had  first  come  to  Felden ;  and  before  him  lay 
the  park,  the  trees  bare  and  leafless,  the 
ground  white  with  a  thin  coating  of  snow, 
the  sky  above  gray  and  starless  —  a  cold  and 
desolate  expanse,  in  dreary  contrast  with  the 
Avarmth  and  brifrhtncss  behind.  All  this  was 
typical  of  the  crisis  of  his  life.     He  was  leav- 


ing warm  love  and  hope  for  cold  resignation 
or  icy  despair.  He  went  down  the  terrace- 
steps,  across  the  trim  garden-walks,  and  out 
into  that  wide,  mysterious  park.  The  long 
avenue  was  ghostly  in  the  gray  light,  the 
tracery  of  the  interlacing  branches  above  his 
head  making  black  shadows,  that  flickered  to 
and  fro  upon  the  whitened  ground  beneath 
his  feet.  He  walked  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
before  he  looked  back  at  the  lighted  windows 
behind  him.  He  did  not  turn  until  a  wind  in 
the  avenue  had  brought  him  to  a  spot  from 
which  he  could  see  the  dimly-lighted  bay- 
window  of  the  room  in  which  he  had  left 
Aurora.  He  stood  for  some  time  looking  at 
this  feeble  glimmer,  and  thinking  —  thinking 
of  all  he  had  lost,  or  all  he  had  perhaps  es- 
caped—  thinking  of  what  his  life  was  to  be 
henceforth  without  that  woman  —  thinking 
that  he  would  rather  have  been  the  poorest 
ploughboy  in  Beckenham  parish  than  the  heir 
of  Bulstrode,  if  he  could  have  taken  the  girl 
he  loved  to  his  heart,  and  believed  in  her 
truth. 


CHAPTER  X. 

FIGHTING    THE    BATTLE. 

The  new  year  began  in  sadness  at  Felden 
Woods,  for  it  found  Archibald  Floyd  watch- 
ing in  the  sick-room  of  his  only  daughter. 

Aurora  had  taken  her  place  at  the  long 
dinner-table  upon  the  night  of  Talbot's  de- 
parture, and,  except  for  being  perhaps  a  little 
more  vivacious  and  brilliant  than  usual,  her 
manner  had  in  no  way  changed  atler  that 
terrible  interview  in  the  bay-windowed  room. 
She  had  talked  to  John  Mellish,  and  had 
played  and  sung  to  her  younger  cousins;  she 
hatl  stood  behind  her  father,  looking  over  his 
cards  through  all  the  fluctuating  fortuaes  of  a 
rubber  of  long  whist ;  and  the  next  morning 
her  maid  had  found  her  in  a  raging  lever,  with 
burning  cheeks  and  bloodshot  eyes,  her  long 
purple-black  hair  all  tumbled  and  tossed  about 
the  pillows,  and  her  dry  hands  scorching  to 
the  touch.  The  telegraph  brought  two  grave 
London  physicians  to  Felden  liefore  noon, 
and  the  house  was  clear  of  visitors  by  night- 
fall, only  Mrs.  Alexander  and  Lucy  remain- 
ing to  assist  in  nursing  the  invalid.  The 
West-End  doctors  said  very  little.  This  fever 
was  as  other  fevers  to  them.  The  young  lady 
had  caught  a  cold,  perhaps ;  she  had  been 
imprudent,  as  these  young  people  will  be,  and 
had  received  some  sudden  chill.  She  harl 
very  likely  overheated  herself  with  dancing, 
or  had  sat  in  a  draught,  or  eaten  an  ice. 
There  was  no  immediate  danger  to  be  appre- 
hended. The  patient  had  a  superb  consti- 
tution ;  there  was  wonderful  vitality  in  the 
system  ;  and,  with  careful  treatment  she  would 
soon  come  round.  Careful  treatment  meant 
a   two-guinea  visit  every  day  from  each  of 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


47 


tliose  learned  gentlemen,  tlioup^h,  perhaps, 
had  they  given  utterance  to  tlieir  inmost 
thoughts,  they  would  have  owned  that,  for  all 
they  could  tell  to  the  contrary,  Aurora  Floyd 
wanted  nothing  but  to  be  let  alone,  and  left 
in  a  darkened  chamber  to  fight  out  the  battle 
by  herself.  But  the  banker  would  have  had 
ail  Saville  Row  summoned  to  the  sick-bed  of 
his  child,  if  he  coidd  by  such  a  measure  have 
saved  her  a  moment's  pain  ;  and  he  implored 
the  two  physicians  to  come  to  Felden  twice  a 
day  if  necessary,  and  to  call  in  other  physi- 
cians if  they  had  the  least  fear  for  their  pa- 
tient. Aurora  was  delirious;  but  she  revealed 
very  little  in  that  delirium.  I  do  not  (juite 
believe  that  people  often  make  the  pretty, 
sentimental,  consecutive  confessions  vmder  the 
inlluence  of  fever  which  are  so  freely  attrib- 
uted to  them  by  the  writers  of  romances. 
We  rave  about  foolish  things  in  those  cruel 
moments  of  feverish  madness.  W*^  are  wretch- 
ed because  there  is  a  man  with  a  white  hat 
on  in  the  room,  or  n  black  cat  upon  the  coun-  ! 
terpane,  or  spiders  crawling  about  the  bed-  I 
curtains,  or  a  coal-heaver  who  icill  put  a  sack  [ 
of  coals  on  our  chest.  Our  delirious  fancies 
arc  like  our  dreams,  and  have  ver\-  little  con- 
nection with  the  sorrows  or  joys  which  make 
up  the  sum  of  our  lives. 

So  Aurora  Floyd  talked  of  horses  and  dogs, 
and  masters  and  governesses ;  of  childish 
troubles  that  had  aillicted  her  years  bcifore, 
and  of  girlish  pleasures,  which,  in  her  normal 
state  of  mind,  had  been  utterly  forgotten. 
She  seldom  recognixed  Lucy  or  Mrs.  Alexan- 
der, mistaking  tliem  for  all  kinds  of  unlikely 
people;  but  she  never  entirely  forgot  her 
father,  ami,  imleed,  always  seemed  to  be  con- 
scious of  his  jirescnce,  and  was  perpe^tually 
appealing  to  him,  imploring  him  to  forgive 
her  for  some  act  of  childish  disobedience  com- 
mitted in  those  departed  years  of  which  she 
talked  so  much. 

John  Mellish  had  taken  up  his  abode  at  the 
Grayhound  Inn,  in  Croydon  High  street,  and 
drove  every  day  to  Felden  \\'oods,  leaving 
his  phaeton  at  tlie  park-gates,  and  walking  up 
to  the  house  to  make  his  inquiries.  The  ser- 
vants took  notice  of  the  Yorkshireman's  pale 
face,  and  set  him  down  at  once  as  "sweet  ' 
upon  their  young  lady.  They  liked  him  a 
great  deal  i)etter  than  Captain  Bulstrodc, 
who  had  been  too  "'igh"  and  "'aughty"  for 
them.  John  flung  his  half-sovereigns  right 
and  left  when  he  came  to  tiie  hushed  man- 
sion in  which  Aurora  lay,  with  loving  friends 
about  lur.  Ht*  held  the  Ibotman  who  an- 
swered the  door  by  the  button-hole,  and  would 
have  gladly  paid  the  man  half  a  crown  a 
minute  for  his  time  while  he  asked  anxiou^ 
questions  about  Miss  Floyd'.s  health.  Mr. 
Mellish  was  warmly  sympafliizcd  witli,  there- 
lore,  in  the  servants'  hall  at  Felden.  His 
man  had  informed  the  banker's  household 
how  he  was  the  best  master  in  England,  and 


how  ]\[ellish  Park  was  a  species  of  terrestrial 
paradise,  maintained  tor  the  benefit  of  trust- 
worthy retainers  ;  and  Mr.  Floyd's  servants 
expressed  a  wish  that  their  young  lady  miuht 
get  well,  and  marry  the  "  fair  one,"  as  they 
called  John.  They  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  there  had  been  what  they  called  "  a 
split"  between  Miss  Floyd  and  the  captain, 
and  that  he  had  gone  oil'  in  a  huif,  whicli  was 
like  his  impudence,  seeing  that  their  young 
lady  would  have  himdreds  of  thousands  of 
pounds  by  and  by,  and  was  good  enough  for 
a  duke,  instead  of  a  begirarly  officer. 

Talbot's  letter  to  ]Mr.  Floyd  reached  Felden 
Woods  on  the  27th  of  Decembei",  but  it  lay 
for  some  time  unopened  upon  the  library 
table.  Archibald  had  scarcely  heeded  his 
intended  son-in-law's  disapjiearame  in  his 
anxiety  about  Aurora.  When  he  di,i  open 
the  letter.  Captain  Bidstrode's  words  were 
almost  meaningless  to  him,  though  he  was 
just  able  to  gather  that  the  engagement  had 
been  broken — by  his  daugliter's  wish,  as  Tal- 
bot seemed  to  infer. 

The  banker's  reply  to  this  commuuii  ation 
was  very  bric'f :  he  wrote  : 

"  My  dkar  Sir— Your  letter  arrived  here 
some  days  since,  but  has  only  been  opened 
by  uie  lliis  morning.  I  have  laid  it  aside,  to 
be  replied  to,  1).  V^.,  at  a  future  time.  At 
present  1  am  unable  to  attend  to  anything. 
My  daughter  is  seriously  ill. 
"  Yours  obediently, 

"  Aucmn.vr.n  Fi.oyd." 

"  Seriously  ill !"  Talbot  Bulstrodc  sat  for 
nearly  an  hour  with  the  banker's  letter  in  his 
hand,  looking  at  these  two  words.  How  much 
or  how  little  might  the  sentence  mean  V  At 
one  moment,  remembering  Archibald  Floyd's 
devotion  to  his  daughter,  lie  thought  that  this 
serious  illness  was  doubtless  some  very  tHfliiig 
busitiess — some  feminine  nei-vous  attack,  com- 
mon to  young  ladies  upon  any  hitrh  in  their 
love-aflTairs;  but  live  minutes  afterward  he 
fancied  that  those  words  had  an  awful  mean- 
ing—  that  Aurora  was  dying  —  dying  of  the 
shame  and  anguish  of  that  interview  in  the 
little  chamber  at  Felden. 

Heaven  above  !  what  had  he  done  ?  Had 
he  munlered  this  beautilid  creature,  whom 
he  loved  a  million  times  better  than  himself? 
Had  he  killed  her  with  those  impali)able 
weapons,  those  sharp  and  cruel  words  which 
he  had  spoken  ou  the  25th  of  December  V 
He  acted  the  scene  over  again  and  again, 
until  the  sense  of  outraged  honor,  then  so 
strong  upon  him,  seemed  to  grow  dim  and 
confused,  and  he  began  almost  to  wmider 
why  he  had  quarrelled  with  Aurora.  Whnt 
if,  after  all,  this  secret  involved  oidy  sonie 
school-girl's  folly?  No;  the  crouching  figure 
and  ghastly  face  gave  the  lie  to  tliat  hope. 
The  secret,  whatever  it  might  be,  was  a  mat- 
ter of  life  and  death  to  Aurora  Flovd.     He 


18 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


(larod  not  try  to  jriu'ss  wliat  it  was.  He  tried 
to  close  his  mind  apainst  the  surmises  that 
would  arise  to  him.  In  the  first  days  tliat 
succeeded  that  tfrrible  Christmas  he  deter- 
mined to  leave  England.  He  would  try  to 
gf?t  some  government  appointment  that  would 
take  him  away  to  the  other  ond  of"  the  world, 
where  he  could  never  hear  Aurora's  name  — 
never  be  enliirhtened  as  to  the  mystery  that 
had  separated  tliem.  lint  now.  now  that  she 
was  ill — in  danjer,  perhaps — -how  coTild  lu; 
leave  the  (mnntry':'  llow  could  he  <ro  away 
to  some  place  where  he  miirht  one  day  0])en 
the  English  newsjiapers  and  see  her  name 
among  the  list  of  deaths  V 

Talbot  was  a  dreai-y  guest  at  Bulstrwle  Cas- 
tle. His  mother  and  his  cousin  Constance  re- 
spected his  ))ale  ra<-e,  and  held  themselves 
aloof  I'rom  him  in  fear  and  trembling;  but  his 
father  askeii  what  the  deuce  was  tli«  matter 
with  the  boy,  tiiat  he.  looked  so  chapfallen. 
and  why  he  didn't  take  his  guu  and  go  out 
on  the  moors,  and  get  an  appetite  tor  his  <lin- 
ner  like  a  Christian,  instead  of  moping  in  his 
own  rooms  all  day  long,  biting  his  fingers' 
ends. 

Once,  and  onrc  only,  did  Lady  Bulstrode 
allude  to  Aurora  Floyd. 

"  You  asked  Miss  Floyd  for  an  explanation, 
I  suppose,  Talbot  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"And  the  result — " 

'•  \Vas  the  termination  of  f)ur  engagt.'nient. 
1  had  rather  you  would  not  speak  to  nie  of 
this  subject  again,  if  you  plea.se,  mother." 

Talbot  took  his  gun,  and  went  out  upon  the 
moors,  as  his  father  advised ;  but  it  was  not 
to  slaughter  the  last  of  the  j)heasants,  but  to 
think  in  peace  of  Aurora  Floyd,  that  the 
young  man  went  out.  The  low-lying  clouds 
upon  the  moorlands  seemed  to  shut  him  in 
like  pri.son-walls.  JIow  many  miles  of  deso- 
late country  lay  belwecn  the  dark  e.\panse 
oa  which  lie  stood  and  th(^  red-brick  mansion 
at  Fi'hlcn  !  how  many  leafless  hedge-rows ! 
how  many  frozen  streams !  It  was  only  a 
day's  journey,  certainly,  by  the  (ireat  N^est- 
ern ;  but  there  was  something  cruel  in  the 
knowledge  tiiat  half  the  length  of  England 
lay  between  the  Kc-ntish  woods  and  that  far 
angle  of  the  British  Isles  upon  which  Castle 
BuLstrode  reared  its  weather-beaten  walls. 
The  wail  of  mourning  voices  might  be  loud  in 
Kent,  and  not  a  whisper  of  death  reach  the 
listening  ears  in  C'ornwall.  How  he  envied 
the  lowest  servant  at  Felden,  who  knew  day 
l>y  day  and  hour  by  hour  of  tin;  progress  oi" 
the  battl(!  between  Death  and  Aurora  Flovd! 
And  ycrt,  after  all,  what  was  she  to  him  V 
What  did  it  matter  to  him  if  slu;  were  well  or 
ill  V  'J'lie  grave  <ould  never  separate  them 
more  utterly  than  they  had  been  .separated 
from  the  very  moment  in  which  he  discovered 
that  she  was  not  woithy  to  be  his  wife.  He 
had  done  her  no  wrotej:;  he  had  given  her  a 


j  full  and  fair  opportunity  of  clearing  herself 
I  from  the  doubtful  .shadow  on  her  name,  and 
1  she   had   been  unable  to  do  .so.     Nay,  more, 
[  she  had  given  him  every  reason  to  suj)pose, 
■  by  her  manner,  that  the  shadow  was  even  a 
;  darker  one  than  he  had  feared.     Was  he  to 
blame,  then  ?     Was  it  his  fault  if  she  were 
i  ill  ?     Were   his  days  to  be  misery,  and   his 
!  nights  a  burden,  because  of  her  ?     He  struck 
;  the  stock  of  his  gun  violently  upon  the  ground 
'  at  the  thought,  and  thrust  the  ramrod  down 
;  the  barrel,  and  loaded  his  fowling-piece  furi- 
]  ou.sly  with  nothing;  and  then,  casting  himself 
at  full  length  upon  the  stunted  turf,  lay  there 
till  the  early  du.sk  closed  in  about  him,  and 
the  .soft  evening  dew  saturated  his  shooting- 
coat,  and  he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  stricken 
with  rheumatic  fever. 

I  might  fill  chapters  with  the  foolish  sufTer- 
ings  of  this  young  man;  but  I  fear  he  must 
have  become  very  wearisome  to  my  afflicted 
readers  —  to  those,  at  least,  who  have  never 
sidTered  from  this  fever.  The  sharper  the 
disea.«e,  the  short(;r  its  continuance,;  so  Talbot 
will  be  better  by  and  by,  and  will  look  back 
at  his  old  self,  and  laugh  at  his  old  agonies. 
Surely  this  inconstancy  of  ours  is  the  worst 
of  all — this  fi(;kleness,  by  reason  of  which  we 
cast  ofi'  our  former  selves  with  no  more  com- 
punction than  we  feel  in  flinging  off  a  worn- 
out  garment.  Our  poor,  thi-eadbare  selves, 
the  sluulows  of  what  we  were !  With  what 
sublime,  patronizing  pity,  with  v/hat  scornful 
compa.ssion,  we  look  back  upon  the  helpless 
dead  and  gone  creatures,  and  wonder  that 
anytliing  so  foolish  could  have  been  allowed 
to  cumber  the  earth  !  Shall  I  feel  the  same 
contem])t  ten  years  hence  for  myself  as  I  am 
to-day  as  I  feel  to-day  for  myself  as  I  was  ten 
years  ago?  Will  the  loves  and  aspirations, 
the  beliefs  and  desires  of  to-day,  appear  as 
pitiful  then  as  the  dead  loves  and  dreams  of 
the  by-gone  decade  ?  Shall  I  look  back  in 
pitying  wonder,  and  think  what  a  fool  that 
young  man  was,  although  there  was  some- 
thing candid  anil  innocent  in  his  very  stupid- 
ity, after  all?  Who  can  wonder  that  the  last 
visit  to  Paris  killed  Voltaire  ?  Fancy  the 
octogenarian  looking  round  the  national  thea- 
tre, and  seeing  himself,  through  an  endless 
vista  of  dim  years,  a  young  man  again,  paying 
his  court  to  a  "goat-faced  cardinal,"  and  be- 
;  ing  beaten  by  De  Rohan's  lackeys  in  broad 
j  daylight. 

j       Have  you  ever  visited  some  still  country 
!  town   after  a  lai)8c  of  years,  and  wondered, 
I  oil,  fast-living  reader,  to  find  the  people  you 
i  knew  in  your  last  visit  still  alive  and  thriving, 
I  with   hair  unbleached   as  yet,  although  you 
have  lived  and  sufi'ered  whole  centuries  since 
I  then  ?     Surely  Providi;nce  gives  us  this  sub- 
limely egotistical  sense  of  Time  as  a  set-off' 
against  the   brevity  of  our  lives!      I   might 
make  this  book  a  companion  in  bulk  to  the 
Catalogue  of  the  British  Museum  if  I  were  to 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


49 

tell  all  that  Talbot  Bnlstrode  felt  and  suffered  :  regard  to  Talbot  nn  ^.^  -^  k    i 
.n  the  month  of  January,  1858-if  I  were  to  I  depS  or  <^^ In'ss      yI?  T  Y'^  ''''"^^.''}  ^''^'^ 
anatomize  the   do.ibts,  and  confession,    ,.,1  ).„!'.,,,"'*•  ,}'^J  ''^  not  think  that 


.natomi.o  the   donbts,  and  c.onfV:;si;n^  a^J  i  ^' LT  d"k  e^d  h   '  ' ''  " 
-elf-conti-adictiot...    tl.A   ,^«.,foi    .,..„i.A-  ..     i  :  ^'    "'' ^'^""-^^^-V^^  heroine  wa 


seJt  -  contradictions,    the   mental    resolutions,  I  inrrj 


"  uttoilv  feel- 


made  one  moment  to  be  broken  tlKMu-xt.     I  I  spSke  of ",  "rv  m?l  ^"'f "      ^^''•'"    ""•>'   « 
refrain,  there/ore,  and  will  set  down  nothin-  I  d    Vnd    1  n^.?     '     ''  '"'","  '^'"'•^^'  ^^'•'-  J'"'^'- 
but  the  fact  that   on  a  certain   Snn'da"- td- ^Wd' c  iS^  ^'"'^   ^'^r^^'"" 

way  in  the  month,  the  cantain.  sifi;,..;  Jn  fl..    o...i  k„,i  i      . "^  •  '""''»  ^^'^'^  ^^^11  and  snii^, 


,     •        ^1    .    , -^». •!.»., I  crien  out,  s  lud- 

donng.  that  she  would  never  enter  tha    hLte- 
''■•  'hamber  asam. 


way  in  the  month,  the  cantain.  .sittiiuT  Jn  fh^  I  a.,,)  i,,,]  ^  „     i.i  '""  -"""I'l  «""  snuff. 

family  pew  at  Bulstrode  church.     ic^Ivfo^  '  ?o     the  invTi   "h'  fT""''  *^  ^''■'^  ^"^^^*  I^'«'^ 

.ng  the  monnmcnt  of  Admiral  Hartle^^JuV  '  hTw!::\Z'1kI\!'"1,^"'-"'-'-^  ^•''-l  «"^  ^^''"'l" 

strode,  who  fought  and   died  in   the  rlavs  of 

Queen  Elizabeth,  registered  a  s^ilent  oath'that, 

as  he  was  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian    he 

would   henceforth  abstain   from  iioldiixr  "any 

voluntary  communication  with  Aurora  Flovd   I 

tint  lor  this  vow  he  must  have  broken  down   ; 

and   yielde.l   to  his  yearning  fear  and   love,  ' 

ami  gone  to  Fclden  Woods  to  throw  himself, 


As  soon  as  ever  she  was  strong  enough  to 
bear  tlie  latjgue  of  the  Journey,  it"was  onsid' 
ered  advisable  to  remove  her  from  Felden 
and  Leamm-ton  was  suggested  by  the  doctors 
as  the  best  place  for  the  chamre-a  mild  cT 
matc  and  a  pretty  inland  rcUreat,  a  hushed 
and  quiet  town,  peculiarly  adapted  to  inva- 


blind  and  unquestioning:  at     h     feet  o,.' I  i  '       T"'  P^"'"""''^' '^'''-^Pt^' 

^iok  woman.     '  ^-'  '    '^'^  "*  '^'^    ^'.^  '  f  "^  almost  deserted  by  other  visitors 

I  alter  the  hunting-season. 

The   tender  green   of  the   earbost   I.,fl  ,    \      '':';^''*^;T7'"«'s  birthday  had  come  and  -one 

-a.,  breaking  oft  iu  biT^'t  LafS  "  ^pon  t t  wii'  n  Ar  i'^l^  M  V,''^^ .''  ^'Z''''''  --«  -- 
l-.edge-rows  round  F.-kkui  Woods'  the  a.h  ^'^/^''^^^^^''^  Floyd  took  his  pale  dau^hte; 
buds  were  no  longer  bla.^k  upon  the  fronJof  1  tT/f^  n  '  ^  ^""i"'^'""^  ^'""^^^  had'  been 
March,  and  pale  Violets  and^prinroses  nruuf  o^J.T'!  '"'"  *  1''"  f  ^"•''' ^l"'  «  »'«"out  of  the 
exquisite  tracery  in  the  shadvTok.  bene^h  '  Z  V  ^'^  %  P'^^*'-  ''^''^  ^^Ha,  half  farm- 
the  oaks  and  beeches;  all  n^trwa't  l^  ^   ^  nrb;:m    ^j^^f  ^^  P'-ter,  checkered 

>vmi  oeams  ol  tMack  wood,  and  wellni.rh  bur- 


;^  in  thS' mil^Aprd^v^ir'wir/S;    "^  l"  "T  "•  '''''  T^^"'  ^^^  -""'^^  ^ 
Floyd  lifted  her  da  -k  everto  her  fat  ie^    fVc     ,'     '"  '  '"-^"'•>«"^a"'l  trimly-kept  rtower-c 
with  som.Mhiug  of  thei;  old  l^k  ^^^^ImS^  -  -'"^:  ^  ^'''^^'  place.fbrming  one  of  a  ll 
I'ght      Tlie  battle  had  been  a  long  and  severe 
one.  but  It  was  wellnigh  over  now.  the  physi- 
o.anssaid;   defeated  Death  drew  back  for  a 


fttf" 
duster  of  rustic' buihii„grerowded"abou"  a 
gray  old  church  in  a  nook  of  the  roadway 
where  two  or  three  green  lanes  met.  and  went 
branching  ofi  between  overhangin-  hedges- 
his  fatal  sprIn.r;andThe  ftebi^-'vii^Lr'wn  "  "^^•'^'•.^''''':^'^  T"/;  vet  clamorous  with  Vhat 
to  be  carricl  down  stairs  to  si  i  he, -aiin.  '  Z'"  tT'"f  n  "k  '  '  f'^'^"  ''■''^'«'-^"'  '^^'^  J-- 
room  for  the  first  time  since  the  ntht  of  Do'  I  "17  .'"^^^"b  "<^  farm-yards,  the  ca.kle  of 
cember  the  2r,th.  '^"  "^  ^^-  I  P^"'^r.>'  .*''^  ^'r'".?  "f  pl.ii^'ons,   the  monoto- 

John  Mdlish,  happenin..  to  be  at  Felden  I  'Tnf^^'"^      f'' "*"•"'  ^"^  ^''«  squabbling 
ti.at  day,  was  allow!:?  the^uoreme^nS:"    TT't.V!!^!'^^:^.  P'^^    .A-hibald  coul^ 


while,  to  wait  a  better  opportunity  for  mak- 


that  day,  was  allowed  the  supreme  privilege 
ot  carrying  the  fragile  burden  in  his  strong 
arms  from  the  door  of  the  sick-chambor  to  thT 
great  ^sofa  by  the  fire  in   the  drawing-room 


attenrled    by' a   procession   of     arm    ^Voonr' '    ri      '  ""''J^  ^'''^'*"*  *"  "«  ^^''"''Pr 
bearing  shails  and  n  llol   1  U    ...  r^J*^  I  ^'•^^T''''  «"  ^  ••»?'"tx-<'overed  sofa,  in  the 


,        .  »         I    ...^..    V,.    iioiiiM    people 

bearing  shawls  and  pillows,  vinaiirJttes  and 
«-ent-bottles,  and  other  invalid  paraphernalia 
h very  creature  at  Felden  was  .Jevotcd  to  this 
a.lored  convalescent.  Archibald  Flovd  live.l 
only  to  minister  to  her;  gentle  Lucy  waited 
on  her  n.Ld.t  and  <Iay,  fearful  to  trust  the  ser- 
vice to  menial  han-ls:  Mrs.  Powell.  like  some 
pale  and  ,,u,et  shadow,  lurked  amid  the  bed- 
curtains,  soft  of  foot  and  watchful  of  eye  in- 
valuable in  the  si,-k-chamber,  a^  the  fioc'tors 
sai.l.  Phronghout  her  illness.  Aurora  had 
ncv«-r  menti..ne<|  the  name  of  Talbot  F?ul- 
stro<le.  Not  even  when  the  fever  was  at  its 
worst,  and  the  brain  most  distraught,  had  that 
tamibar  name  eseaped  her  lips.  Other  names  ^ 
strange  to  Lucy,  had  been  repeated  by  her 
again  and  again  :  the  name,  of  places'  and 
horses,  and  slangy  technicalities  of  the  turf, 
had  intt-rlarded  the  poor  girPs  brain-sick  bab-  ' 
We  ;    but,  whatever  were   her  feelings   with 


not  have  brought  his  daughter  to  a  better 
place.  1  he  checkered  farm-house  seemed  a 
haven  of  rest  to  this  poor,  weary  .riH  of  nine- 
teen.    It  was  so  pleasant  to  lie  wrapped  in 


•    1         ,.        .  --'.«*,  Ill  Lin:;  Open 

window,  listening  to  the  rustic  noises  in  the 
straw-littered  yar.l  upon  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge,  with  her  faithful  Dow-wow's  bi-  fore 
paws  resting  on  the  cushions  at  he.r^  fWt 
ihe  .sounds  in  the  farm-yard  were  pleasanter 
to  Aurora  than  the  monotonous  inflections  of 
Mrs  Iowell'8  voice;  but  as  that  ladv  consid- 
ered It  a  part  of  her  dutv  to  read  aloud  for 
the  invalid-s  delectation.  Miss  Flovd  was  too 
good-natured  to  own  how  tired  she  was  of 
Mavmifm  and  ChUde  I/nrohl,  Enmrfelinr  and 
//le  Queer,  of  the  Maif,  ^m]  how  she  would 
have  preferred,  in  her  present  state  of  mind 
to  listen  to  a  lively  dispute  between  a  brood' 
of  rlueks  round  the  pon.i  in  the  farm-vard,  or 
a  trifling  discnssion  in  the  pig-sty,  to  the  fub- 
lim..st  Imes  ever  penned  by  poet,  living  or 
flea.l.  The  poor  girl  had  suffered  very  much, 
an<i  there  was  a  certain  sensuous,  lazv  pleas- 
ure in  this  slow  recovery,  this  gradual"  return 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


to  strength.  Her  own  nature  revived  in  uni- 
son with  the  bright  revival  of  tlie  genial 
suuinier  weather.  As  the  trees  in  the  garden 
put  forth  new  strength  and  beauty,  so  the 
glorious  vitality  of  her  constitution  returned 
with  mucli  of  its  wonted  power.  The  bitter 
blows  had  left  their  sears  behind  tliehi.  but 
th<?y  had  n<;t  kiili^l  her  after  all.  They  had 
not  utterly  changed  her  even,  for  gliuip.ses  of 
the  old  Aurora  appeared  day  by  day  in  the 
pale  eoiivaleseeni;  and  Archibald  Floyd, 
whose  life  was  at  best  but  a  reflected  (exist- 
ence, felt  his  hopes  revive  as  he  looked  at  his 
daughtei".  Lucy  and  her  nioihi-r  had  gone 
back  to  the  villa  at  Fulhaiu,  and  to  their  own 
family  duties;  so  the  Leannngton  party  con- 
sisted only  of  Aurora  and  her  lather,  ai>d  that 
pale  shadow  of  propriety,  the  ensign's  light- 
haired  widow,  iiut  they  were  not  long  with- 
out a  visitor.  John  Mcllish,  artfully  taking 
the  banker  at  a  disadvantage  in  some  moment 
of  flurry  and  confusion  at  Feldeu  Woods,  had 
extorted  from  him  an  invitation  to  Leaming- 
ton, and  a  fortnight  after  their  arrival  he  pre- 
sented his  stalwart  Ibrui  and  fair  face  at  the 
low.  wooden  gates  ol'  tlie  checkered  cottage. 
Aurora  laugiied  (for  the  iirst  time  since  her 
illness)  as  she  saw  that  faithful  adorer  come, 
carpet-bag  in  hand,  through  the  labyrinth  of 
grass  and  llower-beds  toward  the  oj)en  win- 
dow at  which  she  and  her  father  sat;  and 
Archibald  seeing  that  first  gleam  of  gayety 
in  the  beloved  i'ace,  could  have  hugged  John 
Mellish  for  being  the  cause  of  it.  He  would 
have  embraced  a  street-tumbler,  or  the  low 
comedian  of  a  booth  at  a  fair,  or  a  troop  of 
performing  dogs  and  monkeys,  or  anything 
upon  earth  that  could  win  a  smile  from  his 
sick  child.  Like  the  Eastern  potentate  in  the 
fairy  tale,  who  always  oilers  half  his  kingdom 
and  his  daughter's  hand  to  asiy  one  who  can 
cure  the  princess  of  her  bilious  heailache,  or 
extract  her  carious  tooth,  Archibald  would 
have  opened  a  bankei's  account  in  Lombard 
street,  with  a  falmlous  sum  to  start  with,  for 
any  one  who  could  give  pleasure  to  this  black- 
eyed  girl,  now  smiling,  for  the  first  time  in 
that  year,  at  sight  of  the  big,  fair-faced  York- 
shireman  coming  to  pay  his  foolish  worship  at 
her  shrine. 

It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Floyd 
had  felt  no  wonder  as  to  the  cause  of  the  rup- 
ture of  his  daughter's  engagement  to  Talbot 
Bulstrode.  The  anguish  and  terror  endured 
by  him  during  her  long  illness  had  left  no 
room  for  any  other  thought;  but  since  the 
pashing  away  of  the  danger  he  had  pondered 
not  a  little  upon  the  abrupt  rupture  between 
the  lovers.  He  ventured  once,  in  the  first 
week  of  their  stay  at  Leamington,  to  speak  to 
her  upon  the  subject,  asking  why  it  was  she 
had  dismissed  the  captain.  Now  if  there  was 
one  thing  more  hateful  than  another  to  Aurora 
Floyd,  it  was  a  lie.  I  do  not  say  that  she  had 
.never  told  one  in  the  course  of  her  life.    There 


are  some  acts  of  folly  which  carry  falsehood 
and  di.ssimulation  at  their  heels-as  certainly  as 
the  shadows  which  follow  us  when  we  walk 
toward  the  evening  sun  ;  and  we  vi\r\  rarely 
swerve  from  the  severe  boundary-line  of  right 
without  being  dragged  ever  so  much  farther 
than  we  calculated  upon  across  the  border. 
Alas !  my  heroine  is  not  taullless.  She  would 
take  Iier  shoes  off  to  give  tJiem  to  the  bare- 
footed poor ;  she  would  take  the  heart  from 
her  breast,  if  she  (;ould  by  so  doing  heal  tiie 
wounds  slic  has  inflicted  upon  the  loving  heart 
r)f  her  father.  But  a  shadow  of  mad  folly  ha* 
blotted  her  motherless  youth,  and  she  has  a 
terrible  harvest  to  reap  fi-om  that  lightly-sown 
seed,  and  a  cruel  expiation  to  make  for  that 
unforgotten  wrong.  Yet  her  natural  disposi- 
tion is  all  truth  and  candor ;  and  there  are 
many  young  ladies,  whose  lives  have  been  as 
prin)ly  ruled  and  ordered  as  the  fair  pleasure- 
gardens  of  a  Tyburnian  Scjuare,  who  could 
tell  a  falsehood  with  a  great  deal  better  grace 
than  Aurora  Floyd.  So,  when  her  father 
asked  her  why  she  had  dismisged  Talbot  Bul- 
strode, she  made  no  answer  to  that  cjuestion. 
but  simply  told  him  that  the  c|uarrel  had  been 
a  very  painful  one,  and  that  she  hoped  never 
to  hear  the  captain's  name  again,  although  at 
the  same  time  she  assured  Mr.  Floyd  that  her 
lover's  conduct  had  been  in  nowise  unbecom- 
ing a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor.  ArcM- 
bald  implicitly  obeyed  his  daughter  in  this 
matter,  and,  the  name  of  Talbot  Bulstrode 
never  being  spoken,  it  seemed  as  if  the  young 
man  had  dropped  out  of  their  lives,  or  as  if  he 
had  never  had  any  part  in  the  destiny  of 
Aurora  Floyd.  Heaven  knows  what  Aurora 
herself  i'elt  and  suffered  in  the  quiet  of  her 
low -roofed,  white -<!urtained  little  chamber, 
with  the  soft  May  moonlight  stealing  in  at  the 
casement  windows,  and  ci-eeping  in  wan  radi- 
ance about  the  walls.  Heaven  only  knows 
the  bitterness  of  the  silent  battle.  Her  vitality 
made  her  strong  to  suffer ;  her  vivid  imagina- 
tion intensified  every  throb  of  pain.  In  a  dull 
and  torpid  soul  grief  is  a  slcjw  anguish ;  but 
with  her  it  was  a  fierce  and  tempestuous  emo- 
tion, in  which  past  and  future  seemed  rolled 
together  with  the  present  to  make  a  concen- 
trated agony.  But,  l)y  an  all  -  wise  dispensa- 
tion, the  stormy  sorrow  wears  itself  out  by 
reason  of  its  very  violence,  while  the  dull  woe 
drags  its  slow  length  sometimes  thro.ugh  weary 
years,  becoming  at  last  ingrafted  in  the  very 
nature  of  the  patient  sufferer,  as  some  dis- 
eases become  part  of  our  constitutions.  Au- 
rora was  fortunate  in  being  permitted  to  fight 
her  battle  in  silence,  and  to  suffer  unquestion- 1 
ed.  If  the  dark  hollow  rings  about  her  eyei 
told  of  sleepless  nights,  Archibald  Floyd  for 
bore  to  torment  her  with  anxious  speeches  and 
trite  consolations.  The  clairvoyance  of  love 
told  him  that  it  was  better  to  let  her  aloue 
So  the  trouble  hanging  over  the  little  circle 
was  neither  seen  nor  spoken  of.    Aurora  kept 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


M 


her  skeleton  in  some  quiet  corner,  and  no  one 
saw  the  gri;n  skull,  oi-  heard  the  rattle  of  the 
dry  bones.  Archibald  Floyd  read  Ijis  news- 
papers and  wrote  his  letters;  Mrs.  Walter 
Powell  tended  the  convalescent,  who  reclined 
during  the  best  part  of  the  day  on  the  sofa  in 
the  open  window ;  and  John  Mellish  loitered 
about  the  garden  and  the  farm -yard,  leaned 
on  the  low  white  gate,  smoking  his  cigar,  and 
talking  to  the  men  altout  the  place,  and  was 
in  and  out  of  the  house  twenty  times  in  an 
hour.  The  banker  pondennl  sometimes  in 
serio-comic  perplexity  as  to  what  was  to  be 
done  with  this  big  Yorkshireman,  who  hung 
upon  him  like  a  good-natured  monster  of  six 
feet  two,  conjured  into  existence  by  the  hos- 
pitality of  a  modern  Frankenstein.  He  had 
invited  him  to  dinner,  and.  !o!  he  appeared  to 
be  saddled  with  him  for  life.  He  could  not 
tell  the  friendly,  generous,  loud-spoken  creat- 
ure to  go  away.  Bi-sides,  Mr.  Mellish  was, 
on  the  whole,  very  useful,  and  he  did  much 
toward  keeping  Aurora  in  apparently  good 
."spirits.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  was  it  ri^ht 
to  tamper  with  this  great  loving  heart  ?  Was 
it  just  to  let  the  young  man  linger  in  the  light 
of  tlio.se  black  eyes,  and  tlien  send  him  away 
when  the  invalid  was  ecjual  to  the  effort  of 
giving  him  his  cnnfje'r  Archibald  Flovd  did 
not  know  that  John  had  been  rejected  by  his 
daughter  on  a  certain  morning  at  Brighton,  so  : 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  speak  fraiikly,  and  ' 
sound  the  depths  of  his  visitor's  feelings. 

Mrs.  Powell  was  making  tea  at  a  little  table 
near  one  of  the  windows"  Aurora  had  fallen 
asWep  with  an  open  book  in  her  hand,  and  the  ' 
banker  walked   with    John    Mellish    up   and  \ 
down  an  espaliered  alley  in  the  golden  sunset. 
Archibald    freely   communicated    his   per- 
plexities to  the  Yorkshireman.     "  J  need  not  ' 
tell   yon,   my  dear  Mellish,"'  he  said,   "how 
pleasant  it  is  to  me  to  have  you  here.     I  never 
had  n  son  :  but  if  it  had  pleased  (i^d  to  give  \ 
me  one,  I  could  have  wished  him  to  be  lust 
such  a  frank,  noble-hearted  fellow  as  yourself. 
I  'm  an  old  man,  and  have  seen  a  trreat  deal  i 
of  trouble  — the  sort  of  trouble  which  strikes  i 
deeper  home  to  the  heart  than  any  sorrows  ; 
that  begin  in  Lombard  street  or  on ''Change : 
but  I  fe.l  younger  in  your  society,  and  1  ffnd  I 
myself  clinging  to  you'  and  leaning  on  you  as  I 
a  father  might  upon  his  son.     You  m'av  be-  ■ 
li»-ve,  then,  that    /  don't    wish   to  get   rid  of 
you."  ""  i 

"  I  do.  Mr.   Floyd  ;  but  do  you  think  that 
any  one  else  wishes  to  get  rfd  of  me  'f     Do  | 
you  think  I  'm  a  nuisance  to  Miss  Floyd  '/"      ' 
'No,  M<'liish."  answered  the  banker,  ener- 
?etically.      "I    am    sure   that    Aurora   takes  | 
pleastire  in  your  society,  anti  seems  to  treat  ; 
^Q\\  almost  as  if  you  were  her  brother ;  but —  ! 
but —  I  know  your  feelings,  my  dear  boy,  and  | 
what  I  fear  is,  that  you  may  p<'rhaps  never 
n.'pire  a  wanner  feeling  in  her  heart"  i 

"  Let  me  stay  and  take  rav  chance.  Mr.  i 


Floyd,"  cried  John,  throwing  his  cigar  across 
the  espaliers,  and  coming  to  a  dead  stop  upon 
the  gravel  walk  in  the  warmth  of  his  enthusi- 
asm.    •'  Let  me  stay  and  take  my  chance.     \i 
there  's  any  disappointment  to  be  borne,  I  Ml 
bear  it  like  a  man  ;  I  'II  go  back  to  the  Park, 
I  and   you   shall    never  be   bothered   with   mf. 
I  again.     Miss  Floyd  has  rejected  me  once  al 
'  ready  ;  but  perhaps  I  was  iii  too  gi-eat  a  hurrj. 
j  I  've  grown  wiser  since  then,  and  T  've  learned 
to  bide  my  time.    I  've  one  of  the  finest  estates 
\  in  Yorkshire  ;  I  'm  not  worse  looking  than  the 
'  generality  of  fellows,  or  worse  educated  than 
i  the   generality  of   fellows.      I    may  n't  have 
I  straight  hair,  and  a  pale  face,  and  look  as  \f 
I  I  'd  walked  out  of  a  three-volume  novel,  like 
;  Talbot  Bulstrode.     I  may  be  a  stone  or  two 
over  the  correct  weight  for  winning  a  voung 
lady's  heart;  but  I  'm  sound,  wind  an(i  limb. 
I  never  told  a  lie,  or  committed  a  mean  action; 
and  I  lov<.'   your  daughter  with  as  true  and 
pure  a  love  as  ever  man  felt  for  woman.    May 
I  try  my  luck  once  more  V" 

"  You  may,  John." 

'•And  have  I  —  thank  you,  sir,  for  calling 
me  John  —  have  I  your  good  wishes  for  my 
success  ?" 

The  banker  shook  IMr.  Mellish  by  the  hand 
as  he  answered  this  question. 

"  You  have,  my  (tear  John,  my  best  and 
heartiest  wishes." 

So  there  were  three  battles  of  the  heart 
being  fought  in  that  springtide  of  fifty -ei "-hi- 
Aurora  and  Talbot,  separated  from  each  other 
by  the  length  and  brea<lth  of  half  England, 
3'et  united  by  an  impalpable  chain,  were  strug 
gling  day  by  day  to  break  its  links;  while 
poor  John  Mellish  quietly  waited  in  the  back- 
ground, fighting  the  sturdy  fight  of  the  strong 
heart,  which  very  rarely  fails  to  win  the  prize 
it  is  set  upon,  however  high  or  far  away  tha; 
prize  may  se(;m  to  be. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AT    THK    CHATEAU    D'aUvJUKS. 

John  Mellish  nifjde  himself  entirely  at  home 
in  the  little  Leamington  circle  after  this  inter 
view  with  Mr.  Floyd.  No  one  could  h.ave 
been  more  tender  in  his  manner,  more  respect- 
ful, untiring,  and  devoted,  than  was  this  rough 
Yorkshireman  to  the  broken  old  man.  Ar 
chibald  must  have  been  less  than  human  had 
he  not  in  somewi.-c  returned  this  devotion,  and 
it  is  therefore  scarcely  to  be  wondered  that  hf 
became  very  warmly  attached  to  his  daugb 
ter's  adorer.  Had  John  Mellisli  been  the 
most  designing  dis<-iple  of  Machiavdli,  instead 
of  the  most  transparent  and  candid  of  living 
creatures,  I  scarcely  think  be  could  hav» 
adopted  a  truer  means  of  making  for  him.^eH 
a  claim  upon  the  gratitude  of  Aurora  Floyd 
than  by  the  affection  he  evince«l  for  her  fathT. 


r)'> 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


And  this  affection  was  as  fjenuine  as  all  else 
in  that  simple  nature.  How  could  he  do 
otlierwise  than  love  Aurora's  father?  He 
mas  her  father.  He  had  a  sublime  claim  upon 
the  devotion  of  the  man  who  loved  her— who 
loved  her  as  John  loved  —  unreservedly,  un- 
doubtinTly,  childishly;  with  such  blind,  un- 
questioning love  as  an  infant  feels  for  its 
mother.  There  may  be  better  women  than 
that  mother,  perhaps,  but  who  shall  make  the 
child  believe  so?  .,,.,. 

John  Mellish  could  not  argue  with  himself 
upon  his  passion  as  Talbot  Bulstrode  had  done. 
1-Ie  could  not  separate  himself  from  his  love, 
and  reason  with  the  mild  madness.    How  could 
he  divide  himself  from  that  which  was  him- 
.^,lf_-niore  than  himself — a  diviner  self?     He 
ftsked  no  questions  about  the  past  life  of  the 
woman  he  loved.     He  never  sought  to  know 
the  secret  of  Talbot's  departure  from  Felden.  I 
He   saw  her,  beautiful,   fascinating,  perfect,  ! 
and  he  accepted  her  as  a  great  and  wonderful  | 
fact,  like  the  moon  and  the  .stars  shining  down  I 
on  the  rustic  flower-beds  and  espaliered  gar-  ' 
den-walks  in  the  balmy  June  nights.  } 

So  the  tranquil  days  glided  slowly  and  mo-  ; 
notonously   past   that   quiet    circle.      Aurora  j 
bore  her  silent  burden — bore  her  trouble  with 
a  orand  courage,  peculiar  to  such  rich  orgaui-  j 
r-alions  as  her  own,  and  none  knew  whether  j 
the  serpent  had  been  rooted  from  her  breast,  j 
or  had  made  for  himself  a  permanent  home  in  | 
her  heart.     The  banker's  most  watchful  care  i 
could  not  fathom  the  womanly  mvstery ;  but  | 
tliere  were  times  when  Archibald  P^loyd  ven- 
tured to  hope  that  his  daughter  was  at  peace,  ; 
sxnd  Talbot  Bulstrode  wellnigh  forgotten.    In  ] 
/tny  case,  it  was  wise  to  keep  her  away  from  j 
Felden  Woods ;  so  Mr.  Floyd  proposed  a  tour  | 
through  Normandy  to  his  daughter  and  Mrs.  j 
Powell.      Aurora   consented,    with    a.   tender  j 
smile  and  gentle  pressure  of  her  father's  hand. 
She  divined  the  old  man's  motive,  and  recog-  i 
iiized  the  all -watchful  love  which  sought  to  | 
carry  her  from  the  scene  of  her  trouble.  John  j 
Mellish,  who  was  not  invited  to  join  the  party,  j 
h-arst  forth  into  such  raptures  at  the  ])roposal  j 
that  it  would  have  required  considerable  hard- 
ness of  heart  to  have  refused  his  escort.     He  i 
knew  every  inch  of  Normandy,  he  said,  and  | 
promised  to  be  of  infinite  use  to  Mr.  Floyd  I 
.ind   his   daugliter ;    Avhich,    seeing   that    his 
knowledge  of  Normandy  had  been  acquired  j 
in  his  attendance  at  the  Dieppe  steeple-chases,  j 
and  that  his  acquaintance  with  the  French  | 
language   was   very    limited,    seemed   rather 
doubtful.     But,  for   all  this,  he   contrived   to 
keep  his  word.    He  went  up  to  town  and  hired 
an  all  -  accomplished  courier,  who  conducted 
tlie   little   party  from   town   to  village,  from 
cburch  to  ruin,  and  who  could  always  find  re- 
lays  of  Normandy  horses   for   the    banker's 
roomy  travelling  carriage.     The  little  party 
travelled  from  place  to  place  until  pale  gleams 
of  color  returned  in  transient  flushes  to  Au- 


rora's cheeks.  Grief  is  terribly  selfish.  I  fear 
that  Miss  Floyd  never  took  into  consideration 
the  havoc  that  might  be  going  on  in  the  great, 
honest  heart  of  John  Mellish.  I  dare  say  that 
if  she  had  ever  considered  the  matter,  she 
would  have  thought  that  a  broad  -  shouldered 
Yorkshireman  of  six  feet  two  could  never  suf- 
fer seriously  from  such  a  passion  as  love.  She 
grew  accustomed  to  his  society ;  accustomed 
to  have  his  strong  arm  handy  for  her  to  lean 
upon  when  she  grew  tired ;  accustomed  to  his 
carrying  her  sketch-book,  and  shawls,  and 
camp-stools;  accustomed  to  be  waited  upon 
by  him  all  day,  and  served  faithfully  by  him 
at  every  turn  ;  taking  his  homage  as  a  thing 
of  course,  but  making  him  superlatively  and 
dangerously  happy  by  her  tacit  acceptance 
of  it. 

September  was  half  gone  when  they  bent 
their  way  hom<;ward,  lingering  for  a  few  days 
at  Dieppe,  whore  the  bathers  v/ere  splashing 
about  in  .semi  -  theatrical  costume,  and  the 
Etablisscment  des  Bains  was  all  aflame  with 
colored  lanterns  and  noisy  with  nightly  con- 
certs. 

The  early  autumnal  days  were  glorious  in 
their  balmy  beauty.  The  best  part  of  a  year 
had  gone  by  since  Talbot  Bulstrode  had  bade 
Aurora  that  adieu  which,  in  one  sense  at  least, 
was  to  be  eternal.  The)'  two,  Aurora  and 
Talbot,  might  meet  again,  it  is  true.  They 
might  meet,  ay,  and  even  be  cordial  and 
friendly  together,  and  do  each  other  good  ser- 
vice in  some  dim  time  to  come ;  but  the  two 
lovers  who  had  parted  in  the  little  bay -win- 
dowed room  at  Felden  Woods  could  ticver 
meet  again.  Between  them  there  was  death 
and  the  grave. 

Perhaps  some  such  thoughts  as  these  bad 
their  place  in  the  breast  ot  Aurora  Floyd  as 
she  sat  with  John  Mellish  at  her  side,  looking 
down  upon  the  varied  landscape  from  the 
height  updh  which  the  ruined  walls  of  the 
Chateau  d'Arques  still  rear  the  proud  memo- 
rials of  a  day  that  is  dead.  I  don't  supposo 
that  the  banker's  daughter  troubled  herself 
much  about  Henry  the  Fourth,  or  any  other 
dead  and  gone  celebrity  who  may  have  left 
the  impress  of  his  name  upon  that  spot.  She 
felt  a  tranquil  sense  of  the  exquisite  purity 
and  softness  of  the  air,  the  deep  blue  of  the 
cloudless  sky,  the  spreading  woods  and  grassy 
plains,  the  orchards,  where  the  trees  were 
rosy  with  their  plenteous  burden,  the  tiny 
streamlets,  the  white  villa  -  like  cottages  and 
struggling  gardens,  outspread  in  a  fair  pano- 
rama beneath  her.  Carried  out  of  her  sorrow- 
by  the  sensuous  rapture  we  derive  from  nat- 
ure, and  for  the  first  time  discovering  in 
herself  a  vague  sense  of  happiness,  she  began 
to  wonder  how  it  was  she  had  outlived  her 
grief  by  so  many  months. 

She  had  never,  during  those  weary  months, 
heard  of  Talbot  Bulstrode.  Any  change 
might  have  come  to  him  without  her  knowl- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


as 


etlge.     He  might  have  married  —  might  have  ' 
c'hosen  a  prouder  and  worthier  bride  to  share  i 
his  lofty  name.     She  mig]it  meet  him  on  her  ' 
return  to  England,  v.'ith  that  happier  woman 
leaning   upon   his  arm.     Would   some    good-  \ 
natured  friend  tell  the  bride  how  Talbot  had  \ 
loved    and    wooed    the    banker's   daughter  ?  i 
Auroi'a   found    herself   pitying   this  happier  ' 
woman,  who  would,  after  all.  win    but  the  ' 
second  love  of  that  proud  heart — the  pale  re-  ! 
flection  of  a  sun  that  has  set;  the  feeble  glow  1 
of  expiring  embers  when  the  great  blaze  has  '. 
died  out.     They  had  made  her  a  couch  with  • 
shawls  and  carriage -rugs,  outspread  upon  a 
rustic  seat,  for  she  was  still  far  from  strong, 
and  she  lay  in  the  bright  Sej)tember  sunshine,  \ 
looking  down  at  the  fair  landscape,  and  listen-  ' 
ing   to   the  hum  of  beetles   and   the  chirp  of 
gra.<sho[)pcrs  ujion  the  smooth  turf.  I 

Her  father   had  walked  to  some  distance 
with  Mrs.  Powell,  wlio  explored  every  crevice  j 
and  cranny  of  the  ruins  with  the  dutiful  per- 
severance  peculiar  to  commonplace  people;  < 
but  faithful  Jolin   Mellisli   never  stirred  from  | 
her  side.     He  was  watching  her  musing  face,  j 
trying  to  read  its  meaning — trying  to  gather  i 
a  gleam  of  hope  from  some  chance  expression  ! 
floating  across  it.     Neither  he  nor  she  knew  i 
how  long  he   had  watched   her  thus,  when,  i 
turning  to  speak  to  him  about  the  landscape  | 
at  her  feet,  she  found  liim  on  his  knees  imi)lor- 
ing  her  to  have  pity  upon  him.  and  to  love  | 
him,  or  to  let  him  love  her,  which  was  much  j 
the  same.  I 

"  I  don't  expect  you  to  love  me,  Aurora,"  ! 
he    said,    passionately;    "how    should   you?) 
What  is  there  in  a  big,  clumsy  fellow  like  me  j 
to  win  your  love?     Tdon't  ask  that.     I  only  | 
ask  you  to  let  me  love  you,  to  let  me  worship  j 
you,  as  the  people  we  see   kneeling   in  the 
churches    here    worship    their   saints.       You  I 
won't   drive  me    away   from  you,  will    you, 
Aurora,  because   I  presume   to  forget  what 
you  said  to  me  that  cruel  day  at  Brighton  ? 
You  would  never  have  suffered  me   to  stay 
with  you  so  long,  and  to  be  so  happy,  if  voii 
had  meant  to  drive  me  away  at  the  last !  You 
nevei-  could  have  been  so  cruel !" 

Miss  Floyd  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden 
terror  in  her  face.  What  was  this?  What 
had  she  done  ?  More  wrong,  more  mischief! 
AVas  her  life  to  be  one  of  perpetual  wrong- 
doing? Was  she  to  be  for  ever  bringing 
.sorrow  upon  good  people  ?  Was  this  John 
Mellish  to  be  anothf  r  sufferer  by  her  folly  ? 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  .""  she  cried,  "  forgive  me  ! 
I  never  thought — " 

"  You  never  thought  that  every  day  spent 
by  your  side  must  make  the  anguish  of  part- 
ing from  you  more  cruelly  bitterr  Oh,  Aurora, 
women  should  think  of  these  things!  Send 
me  away  from  you,  and  what  shall  I  be  for 
tIi<>  rest  of  my  life  ?  a  broken  man,  fit  for 
nothing  better  than  the  race -course  and  the 
betting-rooms;  a   reckless   man,  readv  to  go 


to  the  bad  by  any  road  that  can  take  me 
there — worthless  alike  to  myself  and  to  others. 
Y'ou  must  have  seen  such  men,  Aurora ;  men 
whose  unblemished  youth  promised  an  honor- 
able manhood,  but  who  break  up  all  of  a  su«4- 
den,  and  go  to  ruin  in  a  few  years  of  mad 
dissipation.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  a  woman 
is  the  cause  of  that  sudden  change.  I  lay  my 
life  at  your  feet,  Aurora  ;  I  ofTer  you  more 
than  my  heart  —  I  offer  you  my  destiny.  Do 
with  it  as  you  will." 

He  rose  in  his  agitation,  and  walked  a  few 
paces  away  from  her.  The  grass-grown  bat- 
tlements sloped  away  from  his  feet;  outer 
and  inner  moat  lay  below  him,  at  the  bottom 
of  a  steep  declivity.  What  a  convenient 
place  for  suicide,  if  Aurora  should  refuse  to 
take  pity  upon  him !  The  reader  must  allow 
that  he  had  availed  himself  of  considerable 
artifice  in  addressing  Miss  Floyd.  His  appeal 
had  taken  the  form  of  an  accusation  rather 
than  a  prayer,  and  he  had  duly  impressed 
upon  this  poor  girl  the  responsibility  she 
would  incur  in  refusing  him.  And  this,  1 
take  it,  is  a  meanness  of  which  men  are  oftea 
guilty  in  their  dealings  with  the  weaker  sex. 
Miss  Floyd  looked  up  at  her  lover  with  a 
quiet,  half-mournful  smile. 

"  Sit  down  there,  Mr.  Mellish,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  a  camp-stool  at  her  side. 

John  took  the  indicated  seat,  very  much 
with  the  air  of  a  prisoner  in  a  criminal  dock 
about  to  answer  for  his  life. 

•'  Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret?"  asked  Aurora, 
looking  compassionately  at  his  pale  face. 
"  A  secret  ?" 

•'  Y'es;  the  secret  of  my  parting  with  Talbot 
Bulstrode.  It  was  not  I  who  dismissed  him 
from  Felden  ;  it  was  he  who  refused  to  fulfil 
his  engagement  with  me." 

She  spoke  slowly,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  it 
were  painful  to  her  to  say  the  words  which 
told  of  so  much  humiliation. 

"  He  did  !"  cried  John  Mellish,  rising,  red 
and  furious,  from  his  seat,  eager  to  run  to 
look  for  Talbot  Bulstrode  then  and  there,  in 
order  to  inflict  chastisement  upon  him. 

"  He  did,  John  Mellish,  and  he  was  justified 
in  doing  so."  answered  Aurora,  gravely. 
"  Y'ou  would  have  done  the  same." 
*'  Oh,  Aurora,  Aurora  I" 
"  Y'^ou  would.  Y'ou  are  as  good  a  man  a5 
he,  and  why  shouM  your  sense  of  honor  be 
less  strong  than  his  ?  A  barrier  arose  be- 
tween Talbot  Bulstrode  and  me.  and  separat- 
ed us  for  ever.     That  barrier  was  a  secret. 

She  told  him  of  the  missing  year  in  he' 
young  life;  how  Talbot  had  called  upon  her 
for  an  explanation,  and  how  she  had  refused 
to  give  it.  John  listened  to  her  with  a 
thoughtful  face,  which  broke  out  into  sun- 
shine as  she  turned  to  him  and  said, 

"  How  would  you  have  acted  in  such  a  case, 
Mr.  Mellish  ?" 

"How    should    I  have   acted,  Aurora ':"     I 


54 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


ghould  have  trusted  you.  But  I  can  give  you 
&  better  answer  to  your  question,  Aurora.  I 
can  answer  it  by  a  renewal  of  the  prayer  I 
made  you  five  minutes  ago.     Be  ray  wife."' 

"  In  spite  of  this  secret  ?" 

"  In  spite  of  a  hundred  secrets.  I  could 
aot  love  you  as  I  do,  Aurora,  if  I  did  not  be- 
{ieve  you  to  be  all  that  is  best  and  purest  iu 
woman.  I  can  not  believe  this  one  moment, 
aiid  doubt  you  the  next.  I  give  my  life  and 
honor  into  your  hands.  I  would  not  confide 
fchem  to  the  woman  whom  I  could  insult  by  a 
doubt." 

His  handsome  Saxon  face  was  radiant  with 
love  and  trustfulness  when  he  spoke.  All 
his  patient  devotion,  so  long  unheeded,  or 
accepted  as  a  thing  of"  course,  recurred  to 
-Aurora's  mind.  Did  he  not  deserve  some  re- 
ward, some  requital,  for  all  this  '?  But  there 
was  one  who  was  nearer  and  dearer  to  her, 
dearer  than  even  Talbot  Bulstrode  had  ever 
been,  and  that  one  was  the  wbit'e  -  haired  old 
man  pottering  about  among  the  ruins  on  tlie 
other  side  of  the  grassy  plati'orm. 

"  Does  my  father  know  of  this,  Mr.  Mel- 
iish  ?"  she  asked. 

"  He  does,  Aurora.  He  has  promised  to 
.v,cept  me  as  his  son ;  and  Heaven  knows  I 
will  try  to  deserve  that  name.  Do  not  let  me 
distress  you,  Aurora.  The  murder  is  out 
aow.  You  know  that  I  still  love  you,  still 
hope.     Let  time  do  the  rest." 

She  held  out  both  her  hands  to  him  with  a 
tearful  smile.  He  took  those  little  hands  in 
his  own  broad  palms,  and,  bending  down, 
.'u.ssed  them  reverently. 

"  Yon  are  right,"  she  said ;  "  let  time  do  the 
rest.  You  are  worthy  of  the  love  of  a  better 
woman  than  me,  John  Meliish ;  but,  witli  the 
help  of  Heaven,  I  will  never  give  you  cause 
to  regret  haviii":  trusted  me." 


CHAPTER  XIL 

8TEEVE    HARGRAVES,    "  THE    .SOFTY." 

'    Early  in  October  Aurora  Floyd  returned 
(■«   Felden    Woods,   once    more   "  engaged." 
The  county  families  opened  their  eyes  when 
die   report  reached  them  that   the 'banker's 
daughter  was   going  to    be    married,  not  to 
Talbot  Bulstrode,  but  to  Mr.  John  Mellisli,  of  i 
Meliish  Park,  near  Doncaster.     The  unmar-  ; 
ried  ladies  —  rather  hanging  on  hand  about; 
Beckenham   and  West   Wickham  —  did   not 
■rtpprove  of  all  this  chopping  and  changing.  ' 
They  recognized  the    taint  of  the   Prodder 
blood  in  this  fickleness.     The  spangles  and 
the  sawdust  were  breaking  out,  and  Aurora 
was,  as  they  had  always  said,  her  mother's 
own  daughter.     She  was  a  very  lucky  young  I 
vyoman,  they  remarked,  in  being  able,  after 
jilting  one  rich  man,  to  pick  up  another;  but, 


of  course,  a  young  person  whose  fathei-  could 
give  her  fifty  thousand  pounds  on  her  wed- 
ding-day might  be  permitted  to  play  fast  and 
loose  with  the  male  sex,  while  worthier  Ma- 
rianas moped  in  their  moated  granges  till 
gray  hairs  showed  themselves  in  glistening 
bandeaux,  and  cruel  crow's-feet  gathered 
about  the  corners  of  bright  eyes.  It  is  well 
to  be  merry  and  wise,  and  honest  and  true, 
and  to  be  olF  with  the  old  love,  etc.,  but  it  is 
better  to  be  Miss  Floyd,  of  the  senior  branch 
of  Floyd,  Floyd,  and  Floyd,  for  then  you  need 
be  none  of  these  things.  At  least  to  such 
effect  was  the  talk  about  Beckenham  when 
Archibald  brought  his  daughter  back  to  Fel- 
den Woods,  and  a  crowd  of  dressmakers  and 
milliners  set  to  work  at  the  marriage  garments 
as  busily  as  if  Miss  Floyd  had  never  had  any 
clothes  in  her  life  before. 

Mrs.  Alexander  and  Lucy  came  back  to 
Felden  to  assist  in  the  preparations  for  the 
wedding.  Lucy  had  im[)roved  very  much  in 
appearance  since  the  preceding  winter;  there 
was  a  happier  light  in  her  soft  blue  eyes,  and 
a  healthier  hue  in  her  cheeks;  but  she,  blush- 
ed crimson  when  she  first  met  Aui'ora,  and 
hung  bacjc  a  little  from  Miss  Floyd's  caresses. 

The  wedding  was  to  take  place  at  the  end 
of  November.  The  bride  and  biidegroom 
were  to  spend  the  winter  in  Paris,  where 
Archibahl  Floyd  was  to  join  them,  and  return 
to  England  ''in  lime  for  tlu*  Craven  Meet- 
ing," as  John  Meliish  said ;  for  I  am  sorry  to 
say  that,  having  been  so  happily  successful  in 
his  love-alfair,  this  young  man's  thoughts  re- 
turned into  their  accustomed  channels;  and 
the  creature  he  held  dearest  on  earth,  next 
to  Miss  Floyd  and  those  belonging  to  her,  was 
a  bay  filly  called  Aurora,  and  entered  for  the 
Oaks  and  Leger  of  a  future  year. 

Ought  I  to  apologize  for  my  heroine  be- 
cause she  has  forgotten  Talbot  Bulstrode,  and 
that  she  entertains  a  grateful  afiection  for 
this  adoring  John  Meliish  ?  She  ought,  no 
doubt,  to  have  died  of  shame  and  sorrow  after 
Talbot's  cruel  desertion  :  and  Heaven  knows 
that  only  her  youth  and  vitality  carried  her 
through  a  very  severe  battle  with  the  grim 
rider  of  the  pale  horse ;  but,  having  once 
passed  through  that  dread  encounter,  she 
was,  however  feeble,  in  a  fair  way  to  recover. 
These  ])assioflate  griefs,  to  kill  at  all,  must 
kill  suddenly.  The  lovers  who  die  for  love  in 
our  tragedies  die  in  such  a  vast  hurry  that 
there  is  generally  some  mistake  or  misappre- 
hension about  the  business,  and  the  tragedy 
might  have  been  a  comedy  if  the  hero  or 
heroine  had  only  waited  lor  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  If  Othello  had  but  lingered  a  little 
before  smothering  his  wife.  Mistress  Emilia 
might  have  come  in  and  sworn  and  protest- 
ed ;  and  Cassio,  with  the  handkerchief  about 
his  leg,  might  have  b|en  in  time  to  set  the 
mind  of  the  valiant  Moor  at  rest,  and  put  the 
Venetian    dog   to   confusion.     How   happily 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


55 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Romto  Montague  might  have  j 
lived  and  died,  thanks  to  the  dear,  good  friar, 
if  the   foolish   bridegroom    had   iiot   been    in  i 
such   a  hurry  to  swallow  the  vile   stufi"  from  i 
the  apothecary's;  and,  as  people  are,  I  hope  | 
and  believe,  a  little  wiser  in   real  life   than  | 
they  appear  to  be  upon  the  stage,  the  worms  • 
very  rarely  get  an   honest  meal  off  men  and 
women   who  have  died  for  love.     So  Aurora  , 
walked  through  the  rooms  at  Felden  in  which  j 
Talbot  Bulsirodi;  had  so  often  walked  by  her  \ 
*de;  and,  if  there   was  any  regret   at    her 
heart,  it  was  a  fpiiet  sorrow,  such  as  we  feel  , 
for  the  dead  —  a  sorrow  not  nnmingled  with 
pity,  for  she  tliought  that  the  proud  son  of. 
Sir  John  Raleigli  Bulstrode  might  have  been  j 
a  happier  man  if  he  had   been   as  generous  , 
and  trusting  as  Jolin  Melli.sh.     Perhaps  the  ! 
healthiest  sign  of  tlie  >tate  of  her  healtii  was, 
that  she  could  speak  of  Talbot  freely,  cheer- 
fully, and  without  a  blush.     She  asked  Lucy  ' 
if  slie  had  met  Captain  Bulstrode  that  year;  j 
and  the  little  hypocrite  told  her  cousin  Yes;  j 
that  he  liad  spoken  to  them  one  day  in  the  > 
Park,  and  that  she  believed  he  had  gone  into 
Parliament.     She  helievrd!     Why,  she  knew 
his  maiden  speech  by  heart,  though  it  was  on 
some   ho])elessly   uninteresting   bill   in   which 
the  Cornish  mines  were  in  some  vague  manner 
involved  with   the  national  survey,  and  she 
could    have    repeated   it  as  correctly  as  her 
\ounge3t  brother  eoidd  declaim  to  his  "  Ro- 
mans,   countrymen .     and    lover.s."      Aurora 
might  forget  him.  and  basely  marry   a   fair- 
haired  Yoikshi reman  ;  but   for   Lucy   Floyd, 
t^arth  only   held   this  dark  knight,  with   the 
severe   gray    eyes   and    the   stiff  leg.     Poor 
Lucy,  therefore,  loved,  and  was  grateful  to 
her  brilliant  cousin  lor  that  fickleness  which 
had  brought  about  such  a  change  in  the  pro- 
gramme of  the  gay  wedding  at  Felden  Woods. 
The   fair  ioung  confidante    and    bridesmaid 
could  assist  in  tiie  ceremonial  now  with  a  good 
grace.     She   no  longer  walked  about  like  a 
"corpse  alive,"  but  took  a  hearty  womanly 
interest  in  the   whole   affair,   and    was  very 
much  concerned   in    a   discussion   as  to   the 
merits  of  pink  versus  blue  for  the  bonnets  of 
the  bridesmaids. 

The  boisterous  happiness,  of  John  Mellish 
seemed  contagious,  and  made  a  genial  atmos- 
l)here  about  the  great  mansion  at  Felden. 
Stalwart  Antlrew  Floyd  was  delighted  with 
his  young  cou.sin's  choice.  No  more  refusals 
to  join  him  in  the  hunting-field,  but  half  the 
county  breakfasting  at  Felden.  and  the  long 
terrace  ami  garden  luminous  with  "pink." 

Not  a  ripple  disturl)ed  the  smootli  current 
of  that  brief  courtship.  The  Yorkshireman 
contrived  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  every- 
body belonging  to  his  dark-eyed  divinity. 
He  flattered  their  weaknesses,  he  gratified 
their  caprices,  he  studied  their  wishes,  and 
paid  them  all  such  insidious  court,  that  I  'm 
afraid  invidious  comparisons  were  drawn  be- 


tween John  and  Talbot,  to  the  disadvantage 
of  the  proud  young  officer. 

It  was  impossible  for  any  quarrel  to  arise 
between  the  lovers,  for  John  followed  his 
mistress  about  like  some  big  slave,  who  only 
lived  to  do  her  bidding;  and  Aurora  accepted 
his  devotion  with  a  sultana-like  grace,  which 
became  her  amazingly.  Once  more  she  visit- 
ed the  stables  and  inspected  her  father's  stud, 
for  the  first  time  since  she  had  left  Felden  for 
the  Parisian  finishing  school.  Once  more  she 
rode  aeross  country,  wearing  a  hat  which 
provoked  considerable  criticism — a  hat  which 
was  no  other  than  the  now  universal  turban, 
or  pork-pie,  but  which  was  new  to  the  world 
in  the  autumn  of  fifty-eight.  Her  earlier 
girlhood  appeared  to  return  to  her  once  more. 
It  seemed  almost  as  if  the  two  years  and  a 
half  in  which  she  had  left  ami  returned  to 
her  home,  and  had  met  and  parted  with  Tal- 
bot Bulstrode.  had  been  blotted  from  her  life, 
leaving  her  spirits  fresh  a'>d  bright  as  they 
were  before  that  stormy  interview  in  her  fath- 
er's stud)-  in  the  June  of  fifty-six. 

The  county  families  came  to  the  wedding 
at  Beckenham  church,  and  were  fain  to  con- 
fess that  Miss  Floyd  looked  wondrously  hand- 
some in  her  virginal  crown  of  orange-buds  and 
flowers,    and   her   voluminous   Mechlin    veil; 
i  she  had  pleaded  hard  to  be  married  in  a  bon- 
I  net,  but  had  been  ov<M"ruled  by  a  posse  of 
female  cousins.     Mr.  Richard  Gunter  provid- 
ed the  marriage  feast,  and  sent  a  man  down 
to  Felden  to  superintend  the  arrangements, 
I  who  was  more  dashing  and  splendid  to  look 
upon  than  any  ot"  the  Kentish  guests.     John 
Alellish  alternately  laughed  and  cried  through- 
[  out  that  eventful  morning.     Heaven  knows 
[  how  many  times  he  shook  hands  with  Archi- 
bald Floyd,  carrying  the  banker  off  into  soli- 
\  tary  corners,  and   swearing,  with  the   tears 
i  running  down  his  broad  cheeks,  to  be  a  good 
j  husband  to  the  old  man's  daugliter,  so  that  it 
I  must   have  been  a  relief  to  the  white-haired 
!  old   Scotchman  when  Aurora  descended  the 
i  staircase,    rustling   in    violet  moire    anti(iue, 
;  and  surrounded  by  her  bridesmaids,  to  takts 
!  leave  of  this  dear  father  before  the  prancing 
j  steeds  carried  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish  to  that 
I  most  prosaic  of  hymeneal  stages,  the  London 
:  Bridge  station. 

!      Mrs.  Mellish  I     Yes,  she  was  Mrs.  Mellish 

I  now.     Talbot  Bulstrode  read  of  her  marriage 

!  in    that    very   column   of   the   newspaper  in 

which  he  had  thought,  perhaps,  to  see  her 

■death.    How  flatly  the  romance  ended!   With 

what  a  dull  cadence  the  storm  died  out,  and 

i  what  a  commonplace,  gray,  every-day  sky  suc- 

j  ceeded  the  terrors  of  the  lightning  !    Less  than 

;  a  year  since,  the  globe  had  seemed  to  him  to 

j  collapse,  and  creation  to  come  to  a  stand-still 

I  because  of  his  trouble;  and  he   was  now   in 

Parliament  legislating  for  the  Cornish  miners, 

'  and  getting  stout,  his  ill-natured  friends  said ; 

'  and  she  —  she  who  ought,  in  accordance  with 


56 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


all  (Iraniatic  propriety,  to  Iiave  died  out  of 
hand  long  before  this,  she  had  married  a 
Yorkshire  laml-owner,  and  would,  no  doubt, 
take  her  place  in  tlie  county,  and  play  My 
Lady  Bountiful  in  the  village,  and  be  "chief 
patroness  at  the  race-balls,  and  live  happily 
ever  afterward.  He  crunipled  the  Timea 
newspaper,  and  flung  it  from  him  in  his  rage 
and  niortification.  "And  I  once  thought  that 
she  loved  me,"  he  cried. 

And  she  did  love  you,  Talbot  Bulstrode  — 
loved  you  as  she  can  never  love  this  honest, 
generous,  devoted  John  Mellish,  though  she 
may  by  and  by  bestow  upon  him  an  affection 
which  is  a  great  deal  better  worth  having. 
She  loved  you  with  the  girl's  romantic  fanc-v- 
and  reverent  admiration,"and  tried  humbly  to 
fashion  her  very  nature  anew,  that  she  might 
be  worthy  of  your  sublime  excellence.  She 
loved  you  as  Avomcn  only  love  in  their  first 
youth,  and  as  they  rarely  love  the  men  they 
ultimately  marry.  _  The  tree  is  perhaps  all  the 
stronger  when  these  first  frail  branches  are 
lopped  away  to  give  place  to  strong  and 
spreading  arms,  beneath  which  a  husband  and 
children  may  shelter. 

But  Talbot  could  not  see  all  this.  He  saw 
nothing  but  that  brief  announcement  in  the 
Times:  "  Aurora,  only  daughter  of  Archibald 
Floyd,  Banker,  of  Felden  Woods,  Kent,  to 
John  Mellish,  Esq.,  of  Mellish  Park,  near 
Doneaster."  He  was  angry  with  his  some- 
time love,  and  more  angry  with  himself  for 
feeling  that  anger;  and  he  plunged  furiously 
into_  blue-books,  to  prepare  himself  for  the 
coming  session  ;  and  again  he  took  his  gun 
and  went  out  upon  the  ''barren,  barren  moor- 
land," as  he  had  done  in  the  first  violence  of 
his  grief,  and  wandered  down  to  the  dreary 
sea-shore,  where  he  raved  about  his  "Amy, 
shallow-hearted,"  and  tried  the  pitch  of  his 
voice  against  the  ides  of  February  should 
come  round,  and  the  bill  for  the'  Cornish 
miners  be  laid  before  the  speaker. 

Toward  the  close  of  January,  the  servants 
at  Mellish  Park  prepared  for'the  advent  of 
Master  John  and  his  bride.  It  was  a  work  of 
love  in  that  disorderly  household,  for  it  pleased 
them  that  master  would  have  some  one  to  keep 
him  at  home,  and  that  the  county  would  be 
entertained,  and  festivals  held  in  "the  roomy, 
rambling  mansion.  Architects,  upholsterers, 
and  decorators  had  been  busy  through  the 
short  winter  days  jn-eparing  a  suite  of^apart- 
ments  for  Mrs.  Mellisli ;  and  the  western,  or, 
as  it  was  called,  the  Gothic  wing  of  the  house, 
had  been  restored  and  remodelled  for  Aurora^ 
until  the  oak-roofed  chambers  blazed  with 
rose-color  and  gold,  like  a  mediasval  chapel. 
If  John  could  have  expended  half  his  fortune 
in  the  purchase  of  a  roc's  egg  to  hana  in  these 
apartments,  he  would  have  gladly^done  so. 
He  was  so  proud  of  his  Cleopatra-like  bride, 
bis  jewel  beyond  all  parallel  amid  all  gems, 
that  he  fancied  he  could  not  build  a  shrine 


rich  enough  for  his  treasure.  So  th'e  house  in 
which  honest  country  squires  and  their  sensi- 
ble motherly  wives  had  lived  contentedly  for 
nearly  three  centuries  was  almost  pulled 
to  pieces  befoi'e  John  thought  it  worthy  of 
the  banker's  daughter.  The  trainers,  and 
grooms,  and  stable-bovs  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders superciliously,  and  spat  fragments  of 
straw  disdainfully  upon  the  paved  stable-yard, 
as  they  heard  the  clatter  of  the  tools  of  the 
stone-masons  and  glaziers  busy  about  the 
fa<;ade  of  the  restored  apartments.  The  stable 
would  be  naught  now,  they  supjtosed,  and 
Muster  Mellish  would  be  always  tied  to  his 
wife's  apron-string.  It  was  a  ridief  to  them 
to  hear  that  Mrs.  Mellish  Avas  fond  of  riding 
and  hunting,  and  would,  no  doubt,  take  to 
horse-racing  in  due  time,  as  the  legitimate 
taste  of  a  lady  of  position  and  fortune. 

The  bells  of  the  village  church  rang  loudly 
and  joyously  in  the  clear  winter  air  as  the 
carriage  and  four,  which  had  met  John  and 
his  bride  at  Doneaster,  dashed  into  the  gates 
of  Mellish  Park,  and  up  the  long  avenue  to 
the  semi-Gothic,  semi-barbaric  portico  of  the 
great  door.  Hearty  Yorkshire  voices  rang 
out  in  loud  cheers  of  welcome  as  Aurora 
stepped  from  the  carriage,  and  passed  under 
the  shadow  of  the  porch  and  into  the  old  oak 
hall,  which  had  been  hung  with  evergreens 
and  adorned  with  floral  devices,  among  which 
figured  the  legend,  "  Wkllcomio  to  Mkl- 
LisH !"  and  other  such  friendly  inscriptions, 
more  conspicuous  for  their  kindly  meaning 
than  their  strict  orthography.  The  servants 
were  enraptured  with  their  master's  choice. 
She  was  so  brightly  handsome  that  the  sim- 
ple-hearted creatures  accepted  her  beauty  as 
we  accept  the  sunlight,  and  felt  a  genial 
warmth  in  that  radiant  loveliness  which  the 
most  classical  perfection  could  never  have 
inspired.  Indeed,  a  Grecian  outline  might 
have  been  thrown  away  upon  the  Yorkshire 
servants,  whose  uncultivated  tastes  were  a 
great  deal  moi"e  disposed  to  recogiiize  splendor 
of  color  than  purity  of  form.  They  could 
not  choose  but  admire  Aurora's  eyes,  which 
they  unanimousl}'  declared  to  be  "  regular 
shiners ;"  and  the  flash  of  her  white  teeth, 
glancing  between  the  full  crimson  lips;  and 
the  bright  flush  which  lighted  up  her  pale 
olive  skin  ;  and  the  purple  lustre  of  her  mas- 
sive coronal  of  plaited  hair.  Her  beauty  was 
of  that  luxuriant  and  splendid  order  which 
has  always  most  eff'ect  upon  the  masses,  and 
the  fascination  of  her  manner  was  almost  akin 
to  sorcery  in  its  power  over  simple  people.  I 
lose  myself  when  I  try  to  describe  the  femi- 
nine intoxications,  the  wonderful  fascination 
exercised  by  this  dark-eyed  siren.  Surely 
the  secret  of  her  power  to  charm  must  have 
been  the  wonderful  vitality  of  her  nature,  by 
virtue  of  which  she  carried  life  and  animal 
spirits  about  with  her  as  an  atmosphere,  till 
dull  people  grew  merry  by  reason  of  her  con- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


57 


tagious  presence ;  or  perhaps  the  true  charm  1 
of  lier  manner  was  that  childlike  and  ex(juis-  | 
ite  unconsciousness  of  self  whicli  made  lier  1 
for  ever  a  new  creature  —  for  ever  impulsive  i 
and  s^-mpathetic,  acutely  sensible  of  all  sor- 
row in  others,  though  of  a  nature  originally 
joyous  in  the  extreme. 

Mrs.  AV^altci-  Powell  had  been  transferred 
from  Feldeii  Woods  to  Mellish  Park,  and  was 
romfortably  installed  in  her  prim  apartments 
when  the  bride  and  bridegroom  arrived.  Tlie 
Yorkshire  housekeeper  was  to  abandon  the 
•^.xecutive  power  to  the  ensign's  widow,  who 
was  to  take  all  trouble  of  administration  ott" 
Aurora's  hands. 

••  Heaven  help  your  friends  if  thev  ever  had 
lo  eat  a  dinner  of  my  ordering,  John,"  Mrs. 
Mellish  said,  making  a  free  confession  of  her 
ignorance ;  "  I  am  glad,  too,  that  we  have  no 
occasion  to  turn  the  poor  soul  out  upon  the 
world  once  more.  Those  long  columns  of  ad- 
vertisements in  the  Times  give  me  a  sick  ])ain 
at  my  heart  when  I  think  of  what  a  governess 
must  have  to  encounter.  T  can  not  loll  back 
in  my  carriage  and  be  'grateful  for  my  ad- 
vantages,' as  i\Irs.  Alexander  says,  when  I 
rememlier  the  suiTerings  of  others.  I  am 
rather  inclined  to  be  discontented  with  my 
lot,  and  to  ihink  it  a  poor  thing  after  all,  to 
)ie  rich  and  hajip)  in  a  world  where  so  many 
must  sulTer ;  so  1  am  glad  we  can  give  Mrs. 
Powell  something  to  do  at  Mellish  Park." 

The  ensign's  widow  rejoiced  very  nuieh  in 
that  she  was  to  be  retained  in  such  comfort- 
able (juarters,  but  she  did  not  thank  Aurora 
for  the  benefits  7'eceived  from  the  o[icn  hands 
of  the  banker's  daughter.  She  did  not  thank 
her,  because  —  she  liated  her.  Why  did  she 
hate  herV  She  hated  her  for  the  very  bene- 
fits she  received,  or  rather  because  she,  Auro- 
ra, had  power  to  bestow  such  benefits.  She 
hated  her  as  such  slow,  sluggish,  narrow- 
minded  creatures  always  hate  the  frank  and 
generous;  hated  her  as  envy  will  for  ever  hate 
pros])erity ;  as  Hanian  liated  Mordecai  from 
the  height  of  his  throne,  and  as  the  man  of 
Hainan  nature  would  hate  were  he  su])reme 
in  the  universe.  If  Mrs.  Walter  Powell  had 
bt«'n  a  duchess,  and  Aurora  a  crossing-sweep- 
er, she  would  still  have  envied  her;  she  would 
have  envied  her  glorious  eyes  and  fiashing 
teeth,  her  imperial  carriage  and  generous 
soul.  Tliis  pale,  whity-brown  haired  woman 
felt  herself  contemptible  in  the  presence  of 
Aurora,  and  she  resented  the  bounHious  vital- 
ity of  this  nature  which  made  her  conscious 
of  the  sluggishness  of  her  own.  Slit;  detested 
Mrs.  Mellish  for  the  ])Ossessi<)n  of  attributes 
which  she  felt  were  richer  gifts  than  all  the 
wealth  of  the  house  of  Floyd.  Floyd,  and 
Floyd,  nii'lted  into  one  mountain  of  ore.  But 
it  is  not  for  a  dependent  to  hate,  except  in  a 
decorous  and  gentlewomanly  manner — secret- 
ly, in  the  dim  recesses  of  her  soul ;  while  she 
dresses  her  face  with  an   unvarving  smile  —  a 


smile  which  she  puts  on  every  morning  with 
her  clean  collar,  and  takes  oif  at  night  when 
she  goes  to  bed. 

Now  as,  by  an  all-wise  dispensation  of 
Providence,  it  is  not  possible  for  one  person 
so  to  hate  another  without  that  other  having 
a  vague  consciousness  of  the  dea<ily  senti- 
ment, Aurora  felt  tiiat  Mrs.  Powell's  attach- 
ment to  her  was  of  no  very  j)rofouiid  a  na- 
ture. But  the  reckless  girl  did  not  seek  to 
fathom  the  depth  of  any  inimical  feeling 
which  might  lurk  in  her  dependent's  breast. 
"  She  is  not  very  fond  of  me,  poor  soul," 
she  said,  "  and  I  dare  say  1  torment  and 
annoy  her  with  my  careless  lollies.  If  I  were 
like  that  dear,  considerate  little  Lucy,  now — " 
And  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  and  an 
unfinislied  sentence  such  as  this,  !Mrs.  Mellish 
dismissed  the  insignificant  subject  from  her 
mind. 

You  can  not  expect  these!  grand,  coura- 
geous ci-eatures  to  be  frightened  of  quiet 
people.  And  yet,  in  the  great  dramas  of  life, 
it  is  the  <piiet  peojile  who  do  the  mischief. 
Lago  was  not  a  noisy  person,  though,  thank 
Heaven  1  it  is  no  longer  the  fashion  to  repre- 
sent him  an  oily  sneak,  whom  even  the  most 
foolish  of  Moors  could  nut  have  trusted. 

Aurora  was  at  peace.     The  storms  that  had 
so   nearly  shipwrecked    her  young   life    had 
passed  away,  leaving  her  u])on  a  lair  and  fer- 
tile shore.     Whatever  griefs  she  had  inflicted 
'  upon  her  father's  devoted  he-art  had  not  been 
!  mortal,   and   the   old   banker  seemed  a  verv 
I  happy  man  when  he  came,  in  the  bright  April 
I  wcatiier,  to  see  the  young  couple  at  Mellish 
!  P;u-k.     Among   all    the    hangers-on   ot    that 
'  large  establishment  there  was  only  one  per- 
j  son   who   did    not  join  in    the  general  voice 
j  when  Mrs.  Mellish  was   spoken  of,  and  that 
!  one  person,  was  so  very  insignificant  that  his 
j  fellow-servants  scarcely  cared  to  ascertain  his 
t  opinion.     He  was  a  man  of  about  forty,  who 
1  had  been  born  at  Mellish  I'ark,  and  had  pot- 
'  tered   about   the   stables   from    his   boyhood, 
doing   odd  jobs    for  the    grooms,   and    being 
reckoned,  although  a  little  "fond"  upon  com- 
mon   matters,   a   very  acute  judge  of  horse- 
flesh.    This  man  was  called  Stejihcn,  or  more 
commonly,    Steeve     Hargravcs.      He    was   a 
sijuat,    broad-shouldered   fellow,  with   a   big 
!  head,   a  pale,  haggard    face  — a   face   whose 
;  ghastly  pallor  seemed  almost  nunatui-al — red- 
dish-brown eyes,  and  bushy,  sandy  eyiibrows, 
>Vhich    formed    a    species    of  penthouse  over 
those  sinister-looking  eyes.      He  Wius  the  sort 
of  man  who  is  generally  lalled  repulsive  —  a 
man  from  whom  you  recoil  with  a  feeling  of 
,  instinctive   dislike,   which   i.s,  no  doubt,  both 
wicked  and  unjust;  for  we  have  no  right  to 
take   objeetion   to  a  man   because  he  has  an 
;  ugly  glitter  in   Ids  eyes,  and   shaggy  tufts  ol 
'  red    hair  meeting  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose. 
I  and  big  splay  feet,  which  seem  made  to  crush 
and   destrov    whatever  comes  in    their  way  ; 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


and  this  was  what  Aurora  Mellish  thonght 
wlieii,  a  few  days  after  her  arrival  at  the 
Park,  she  saw  Steeve  Hargraves  for  the  first 
time,  coming  out  of  the  harness-room  with  a 
bridle  across  his  room.  She  was  angry  with 
herself  for  the  invoUuitary  shudder  with  which 
she  drew  bav^k  at  the  sight  of  this  man,  who 
stood  at  a  little  distance  polishing  the  brass 
ornaments  upon  a  set  of  harness,  and  furtively 
regarding  Mrs.  Mellish  as  she  leaned  on  her 
husband's  arm,  talking  to  the  trainer  about 
the  foals  at  grass  in  the  meadows  outside  the 
Park. 

Aurora  asked  who  the  man  was. 

'•  Wh}-,  his  name  is  Hargraves,  ma'am,"  an- 
swered the  trainer  ;  "but  we  call  him  Steeve. 
He  's  a  little  bit  touched  in  tlie  upper  story — 
a  little  bit  '  fond,'  as  we  call  it  here  ;  but  he  's 
usefnl  about  the  stables  when  he  pleases,  for 
he  's  rather  a  (|ueer  temper,  and  there  's  none 
of  us  has  ever  been  able  to  get  the  upper 
hand  of  him,  as  master  knows." 

John  Mellish  laughed. 

"No,"  he  said;  "Steeve  has  pretty  much 
his  own  way  in  the  stables,  I  fancy.  He  was 
a  favorite  groom  of  my  father's  twenty  years 
ago;  but  he  got  a  foil  in  the  hunting-field, 
which  did  him  some  injury  about  the  head, 
and  he  's  never  been  quite  right  since.  Of 
course  this,  with  my  poor  father's  regard  for  I 
him,  jiives  him  a  claim  upon  us,  and  we  put  j 
up  with  his  queer  ways — don't  we,  Langley  ?"  1 

"  Well,  we  do,  sir,"  said  the  trainer ;  i 
*•  though,  upon  my  honor,  I  'm  sometimes  half  j 
afraid  of  him,  and  think  he  '11  get  up  in  the  I 
middle  of  the  night  and  murder  some  of  us." 

"  Not  till  some  of  you  have  won  a  hatful  of  j 
money,  Langley.  Steeve's  a  little  too  fond  of  } 
the  brass  to  murder  any  of  you  for  nothing,  j 
You  shall  see  his  face  light  up  presently,  j 
Aurora,"  s^ud  John,  beckoning  to.  the  stable-  1 
man.  "  Come  here,  Steeve"  Mrs.  Mellish  ' 
wishes  you  to  drink  her  health."  { 

He  dropped  a  sovereign  into  the  man's  ' 
broad,  muscular  palm  —  the  hand  of  a  gladia-  ! 
tor,  with  horny  flesh  and  sinews  of  iron,  i 
Steeves  red  eyes  glistened  as  his  fingers  j 
dosed  upon  the  money.  "        | 

"  Thank_  yon  kindly,  my  lady,"  he  said,  i 
touching  his  cap.  '  i 

He  spoke  in  a  low,  subdued  voice,  which  | 
contrasted  so  strangely  with  the  physical  pow-  I 
er  manifest  in  his  appearance  that  Aurora  j 
drew  back  with  a  start. 

Unhappily  for  this  poor  "  fond"  creature,  j 
whose  person  was  in  itself  repulsive,  there  ' 
was  somethinc^  in  this  inward,  semi-whisper-  I 
iiig  voice  which  gave  rise  to  an  instinctive! 
dislike  in  those  who  heard  him  speak  for  the 
first  time. 

He  touched  his  greasy  woollen  cap  once 
more,  and  went  slowly  back  to  his  work. 

"  How  white  his  face  is !"  said  Aurora. 
'•  Has  he  been  ill  ?" 

"  No.     He  has  had  that  pale  face  ever  since 


his  fall.     I  was  too  young  when  it  happened 
to  remember  much  about  It,  but  I  have  heard 
my  father  say  that  when   they  brought    the 
poor  creature  home  his  face,  which  had  been 
;  fiorid  beibre,  was  as  white  as  a  sheet  of  writ- 
ing-paper,  and  his  voice,   until    that    period 
strong   and   gruflT,  was  reduced  to   the   half- 
whisper  in  which  he  now  speaks.     The  doc- 
,  tors  did  all  they  could  for  him,  and  carried 
him  through  an  awful  attack  of  brain  fever, 
;  but  they  could  never  bring  back  his  voice, 
!  nor  the  color  to  his  cheeks."' 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  said  Mrs.  Mellish,  gently ; 
!  "  he  is  very  much  to  be  pitied." 

She  was  reproaching  hei-self,  as  she  said 
this,  for  that  feeling  of  repugnance  which  she 
could  not  overcome.  It  was  a  rej)ugnance 
closely  allied  to  terror;  she  felt  as  if  she 
could  scarcely  be  hajjpy  at  Mellish  Park  while 
that  man  was  on  the  premises.  She  was  half 
inclined  to  beg  her  indulgent  husband  to  pen- 
sion him  off,  and  send  him  to  the  other  end  of 
the  county ;  but  the  next  moment  she  was 
ashamed  of  her  childish  folly,  and  a  few  hours 
afterward  had  forgotten  Steeve  Hargraves, 
the  "  softy,"  as  he  was  politely  called  in  the 
stables. 

Reader,  when  any  creature  inspires  you 
with  this  instinctive,  unreasoning  abhorrence, 
avoid  that  creature.  He  is  dangerous.  Take 
warning,  as  you  take  warning  by  the  clouds 
in  the  sky  and  the  ominous  stillness  of  the 
atmosphere  when  there  is  a  storm  coming. 
Nature  can  not  lie  ;  and  it  is  nature  which 
has  planted  that  shuddering  terror  in  your 
breast ;  an  instinct  of  self-preservation  rather 
than  of  cowardly  fear,  which,  at  the  first 
sight  of  some  fellow-creature,  tells  you  more 
plainly  than  words  can  speak,  "  That  man  is 
my  enemy  !" 

Had  Aurora  suffered  herself  to  be  guided 
by  this  instinct;  had  she  given  way  to  the 
impulse  which  she  despised  as  chihlish,  and 
caused  Stephen  Hargraves  to  be  dismissed 
from  Mellish  Park,  what  bitter  misery,  what 
cruel  anguish,  might  have  been  spared  to 
herself  and  others. 

The  mastiff  Bow-wow  had  accompanied  his 
mistress  to  her  new  home  ;  but  Bow-wow's 
best  days  were  done.  A  month  before  Au- 
rora's marriage  he  had  been  run  over  by  a 
pony-carriage  in  one  of  the  roads  about  Fel- 
den,  and  had  been  conveyed,  bleeding  and 
disabled,  to  the  veterinary  surgeon's,  to  have 
one  of  his  hind  legs  put  into  splints,  and  to 
be  carried  through  his  sutferlngs  by  the  high- 
est available  skill  in  the  science  of  dog-doc- 
toring. Aurora  drove  every  day  to  Croydon 
to  see  her  sick  favorite ;  and  at  the  worst 
Bow-wow  was  always  well  enough  to  recog- 
nize his  beloved  mistress,  and  roll  his  listless, 
feverish  tongue  over  her  white  hands,  in  token 
of  that  unchanging  brute  affection  which  can 
only  perish  with  life.  So  the  mastifi"  was 
quite   lame   as  well   as   half  blind  when    ho 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


5!? 


nrrived  at  Mellisli  Park  with  tli<^  rest  of  Au- 
rora's goods  and  cbattels.  Ho  was  a  privileged 
eroature  in  the  looniy  mansion;  a  tiger-skiu 
was  spread  for  liini  upon  tlie  hearth  in  tlie 
drawing -room,  and  he  spent  his  decdining 
days  in  luxurious  repose,  basking  in  the  fire- 
light or  sunning  himself  in  the  windows,  as  it 
])leased  his  royal  fancy ;  but,  feeble  as  he  was, 
always  able  to  limp  after  JMrs.  Mellish  when 
she  walked  on  the  lawn  or  in  the  woody 
shrubberies  whicdi  skirted  the  gardens. 

One  (lav,  when  sh(>  had  returned  from  her  ; 
morniuii's  ride  with  John  and  her  father,  who  ; 
avcompanied  them  sometimes  upon  a  quiet  ! 
gray  eob,  and  seemed  a  younger  man  for  the 
exereise,  she  lingered  on  the  lawn  in  her 
riding-habit  after  the  horses  had  been  taken 
l)ack  to  the  stables,  and  Mr.  Mellish  and  his 
father-in-law  had  re-entered  tlie  house.  The 
mastilf  saw  her  from  the  drawing-room  win- 
dow, and  erawlcd  out  to  welcome  her.  Tempt- 
ed by  the  exquisite  softness  of  the  atmosphere, 
.-he  strolled,  with  her  riding-habit  gathered 
under  her  arm  and  her  whip  in  her  hand, 
looking  for  primroses  under  the  elumps  of 
trees  upon  the  lawn.  She  gathered  a  cluster 
<>t"  wild  Howers,  and  wa.s  returning  to  the 
liuuse.  when  she  remembered  some  directions 
respecting  a  favorite  pony  that  was  ill,  which 
she  had  omitted  to  give  to  her  groom. 

She  crossed  the  stable -yard,  followed  by 
Bow-wow,  found  the  groom,  gave  him  her 
orders,  and  went  back  to  the  gardon.s.  While 
talking  to  the  man.  she  had  recognized  the 
white  fai-e  of  Steeve  Ilargraves  at  one  of  the 
windows  of  the  harness-room.  He  came  out 
while  she  was  giving  her  directions,  and  car- 
rierl  a  set  of  harness  across  to  a  coach-h(juse 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  cpiadrangle.  Au- 
rora was  on  the  threshold  of  the  gates  open- 
ing from  the  stables  into  tlie  gardens,  when 
-he  was  arrested  by  a  howl  of  pain  from  the 
mastiff  liow-wow.  Rapid  as  lightning  in  every 
movcment,  she  turned  round  in  time  to  sec 
the  cause  of  this  cry.  Steeve  Hargravcs  had 
sent  the  animal  reeling  away  from  him  with  a 
kick  from  his  iron-bound  clog.  Cruelty  to 
animals  was  one  of  the  failings  of  the  "softy." 
lie  was  not  cruel  to  the  Mellish  horse.i.  for  he 
had  sense  enough  to  know  thai  his  daily 
bread  depended  upon  iiis  attention  to  them ; 
but  Heaven  help  any  outsider  that  (^ame  in 
his  way.  Aurora  sprang  upon  him  like  a 
Ix-autilul  tigress,  ami,  catching  the  collar  of 
his  fustian  jacket  in  her  slight  hands,  rootdi 
him  to  the  spot  upon  which  he  stood.  The 
grasp  of  those  slender  hands,  convuls(!d  by 
pa.ssion,  was  not  to  be  easily  shaken  off";  and 
Steeve  Hargravcs,  taken  c()mj)!ctely  oil'  his 
guanl,  stared  aghast  at  his  as.sailant.  Taller 
than  the  stable-man  by  a  foot  and  a  half,  she 
towered  above  him,  her  cheeks  white  with 
rage,  her  eyes  flashing  fury,  her  hat  fallen  off, 
and  her  black  hair  tundiiing  about  her  nhnul- 
ders,  sublime  in  her  passion. 


The  man  crouched  beneath  the  grasp  of 
the  imj)crioiis  creature. 

"  Let  me  go."  he  gasped,  in  his  inward 
whisper,  which  had  a  hissing  sound  in  his 
agitation ;  "  let  me  go,  or  you  "11  be  sorry ; 
let  me  go !"' 

"How  dared  you  I"  cried  Aurora — "bow 
dared  you  hurt  him  ?  My  pot^r  dog  !  My 
poor,  lame,  feeble  dog  !  How  <lared  you  do 
it  V     You  cowardly  dastard  !  you^" 

She  disengaged  her  right  hand  from  hi.s 
collar,  and  rained  a  shower  of  blows  upon  bis 
clumsy  shoulders  with  her  slender  whip;  a 
mere  toy.  with  emeralds  set  in  its  golden 
head,  but  stinging  like  a  rod  of  flexible  steel 
in  that  little  hand. 

"  How  dared  you  !"'  she  repeated  again  and 
again,  her  cheeks  changing  from  white  to 
scarlet  in  the  eflort  to  Isold  tlu^  man  with  on*; 
hand.  Her  tangled  hair  had  fallen  to  her 
waist  by  this  time,  and  the  whip  was  broken 
In  half  a  dozen  places. 

John  Mellish,  entering  the  stable-yard  bv 
chance  at  this  very  moment,  turned  white 
with  horror  at  beholding  the  beautiful  fury. 

"Aurora!  Aurora!"  he  cried,  snatching 
the  man's  collar  from  her  grasp,  and  hurling 
him  half  a  dozen  paces  off.  "  Aurora,  what 
is  itV" 

She  told  him.  in  broken  gasps,  the  cause  of 
her  indignation.  He  took  the  splintered  whip 
from  her  hand,  picked  up  her  hat  which  she 
had  trodden  upon  in  her  rage,  and  led  her 
across  the  yard  toward  the  back  entrance  to 
the  house.  It  was  such  bitter  shame  to  him 
to  think  that  this  peerless,  this  adored  creat- 
ure should  do  anytliing  to  bring  disgrai-e  or 
even  ridicule  upon  herself.  He  would  have, 
strip])ed  oif  his  coat  and  fought  with  half  a 
dozen  coal-heavecs,  and  thought  nothing  of 
It ;  but  that  she — 

"  Go  in,  go  In,  my  darling  giil,"  he  said, 
with  sorrowful  tenderness;  "the  servants  are. 
peeping  and  prying  about,  I  dare  say.  You 
should  not  have  done  this;  you  should  have 
told  me." 

"  I  should  have  told  you  I"  she  cried,  impa- 
tiently. "  How  could  i  Slop  to  tell  you  when 
I  saw  him  strike  mv  dog  —  my  ])Oor,  lame 
dogV" 

"  Go  In,  darling,  go  In  !  Tliere.  there, 
calm  yoursidf,  and  go  in." 

He" spoke  as  if  he  had  been  trying  to  soothe 
an  agitated  child,  for  hi' saw  by  tlie  convulsive 
heaving  of  her  breast  that  the  violent  emotion 
would  terminate  in  hysteria,  as  all  womanly 
fury  must,  sooner  or  later.  He  half  le<l.  half  car- 
ried her  up  a  back  staircase  to  her  own  room, 
and  left  her  lying  on  a  sofa  in  iier  riding-hab- 
it. He  thrust  the  broki  n  whip  into  his  pocket, 
and  then,  setting  his  strong  whiti-  teeth  and 
clenching  his  fist,  went  to  look  ibr  Stephen 
Hargravcs.  As  he  crossed  the  hall  In  his 
way  out,  he  selected  a  stout  leatlur-thonged 
hunting-whip  from  a  stantl  of  formidable  im- 


60 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


plenients.     Steeve.  the  softy,  was  sitting  on  a 
horst'-block  wlioR  Jolin  re-entered  the  stable- 
vard.     He  was  rubbing  his  shouklei's  with  a 
very  doleful  face,  while  a  couple  of  grinning 
stable-boys,  who  had   pei'haps   witnessed  his 
chastisement,  watched  him  from  a  respectful 
distince.     They  had  no  inclination  to  go  too 
near  him  just  then,  for  the  softy  had  a  play- 
ful habit  of  brandishing  a  big  clasp-knife  when  ; 
he  felt  himself  aggrieved,  and  the  bravest  lad  , 
in  the  stables  had  no  wish  to  die  from  a  stab 
in  the  abdomen,  with  the  pleasant  conviction  1 
that  his  murderer's  heaviest  punishment  might  i 
be  a  fortnight's  imprisonment  or  an  easy  fine.  ; 

"  Now,  Mr.  Hargraves,"  said  John  Mellish,  ! 
lifting  the  softy  off  the  horse-block  and  plant-  ! 
ing  him  at  a  convenient  distance  for  givinsi  ! 
full  play  to  the  hunting-whip,  "it  was  n't  Mrs.  ! 
Mellish's  business  to  horsewhip  you,  but  it  j 
was  her  duty  to  let  me  do  it  for  her;  so  take  ! 
that,  you  coward."  '. 

The  leathern  thong  whistled  in  the  air, -j 
and  curled  about  Steeve's  shoulders ;  but  i 
John  felt  there  was  something  despicable  in  j 
the  unequal  contest.  He  threw  his  whip  I 
away,  and,  still  holding  him  by  the  collar,  I 
conducted  the  softy  to  the  gates  of  the  stable- 1 
yard.  ! 

"  You  see  that  avenue,"  he  said,  pointing  ! 
down  a  fair  glade  that  stretched  before  them,  j 
*'  it  leads  pretty  straight  out  of  the  park,  and  i 
1  strongly  recommend  you,  Mr.  Stephen  ! 
Hargraves,  to  get  to  the  end  of  it  as  quick  as  ' 
ever  you  can,  and  never  to  show  your  uo-lv  ' 
white  face  upon  an  inch  of  ground  belong-  i 
ing  to  me  again.     D've  hear  ?" 

"  P:-es,  sir." 

"  Stay !  I  suppose  there  's  wages  or  some-  i 
thing  due  to  you."  He  took  a  handful  of^ 
money  from  his  waistcoat-pocket  and  threw  it  ' 
on  the  grountl,  sovereigns  and  half-crowns  '■ 
rolling  hither  and  thither  on  the  gravel  path;  , 
then,  turning  on  his  heel,  he  left  the  softy  to  | 
pick  up  the  scattered  treasure.  Steeve  Har-  \ 
graves  dropped  on  his  knees,  and  groped  ' 
about  till  he  had  found  the  last  coin  ;  then,  I 
as  he  slowly  counted  the  money  from  one  i 
hand  into  the  other,  liis  white  face  relapsed  | 
into  a  grin  ;  John  Mellish  had  given  him  gold  | 
and  silver  amounting  to  upward  of  two  years  I 
of  his  ordinary  wages.  '  ! 

lie  walked  a  few  paces  down  the  avenue, 
and  then,  looking  back,  shook  his  list  at  the 
house  he  was  leaving  behind  him. 

"  You  're  a  fine-spirited  madam,  Mrs.  John 
Mellish,  pure  enough,"  he  muttered:  "but 
never  you  give  me  a  chance  of  doing  you  any 
mischief,  or  by  the  Lord,  fond  as  I  am,  I  '11  do 
it!  They  think  the  sofly  's  up  to  naught, 
perhaps.     Wait  a  bit." 

He  took  his  money  from  his  pocket  again, 
and  counted  it  once  more  as  he  walked  slowly 
toward  the  gates  of  the  park. 

It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that  Aurora  had 
two  enemies,  one  without  and  one  within  her 


pleasant  home  ;  one  for  ever  brooding  discon- 
tent and  hatred  within  the  holy  (tircle  of  the 
domestic  hearth,  the  other  plotting  ruin  and 
vengeance  without  the  walls  of  the"  citadel. 


CHAPTER  Xni. 

T  H  K     t  P  R  I  N  G     MEETING. 

The  early  spring  brought  Lucy  Floyd  on  a 
visit  to  her  cousin,  a  wondering  witness  of  the 
haj)pines3  that  reigned  at  Mellish  Park. 

Poor  Lucy  had  expected  to  find  Aurora 
held  as  something'better  than  the  dogs,  and  a 
little  higher  than  the  horses  in  that  York- 
shire household,  and  Avas  considerably  sui-- 
prised  to  find  her  dark-eyed  cousin  a  despotic 
and  capricious  sovereign,  reigning  with  un-- 
disputed  sway  over  every  creature,  biped  or 
quadruped,  upon  the  estate.  She  was  sur- 
prised to  see  the  bright  glow  in  her  cheeks, 
the  merry  sparkle  in  her  eyes  —  surj)rised  to 
hear  the  light  tread  of  her  footstep,  the  gush- 
ing music  of  her  laugh  — •  surpiised,  in  fact,  to 
discover  that,  instead  of  weeping  over  the 
dry  bones  of  her  dead  love  for  Talbot  Bul- 
strode,  Aurora  had  learned  to  love  her  hus- 
band. 

Have  I  any  need  to  be  ashiuned  of  my 
heroine  in  that  she  had  forgotten  her  straight- 
nosed,  gray-eyed  Cornish  lover,  who  bad  sec 
his  pride  and  his  pedigree  between  himselt" 
and  his  aflfection,  and  had  loved  her  at  best 
with  a  reservation,  although  Heaven  only 
knows  how  dearly  he  had  loved  her  V  Have  I 
any  cause  to  blush  for  this  poor,  impetuous 
girl  if,  turning  in  the  sickness  of  her  sorrow- 
ful heart  with  a  sense  of  relief  and  gi'atitude 
to  the  honest  shelter  of  John's  love,  she  had 
quickly  learned  to  feel  tor  him  an  aflfection 
which  repaid  him  a  thousand-fold  for  his  long- 
suffering  devotion  V  Surely  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  any  true-hearted  woman 
to  withhold  some  such  re[)ayment  for  such 
love  as  that  which  in  every  word,  and  look, 
and  thought,  and  deed  John  Mellish  be- 
stowed upon  his  wife.  How  could  she  be  for 
ever  his  creditor  for  such  a  boundless  debt  ? 
Are  hearts  like  his  common  among  our  clay  '? 
Is  it  a  small  thing  to  be  beloved  with  this  loj^al 
and  pure  aflfection  ?  Is  it  laid  so  often  at  the 
feet  of  any  mortal  woman  that  she  should 
spurn  and  trample  upon  the  holy  offering  V 

He  had  loved,  and,  more,  he  had  trusted 
her  —  he  had  trusted  her,  when  the  man  who 
passionately  loved  her  had  left  her  in  an 
agony  of  doubt  and  despair.  The  cause  of 
this  lay  in  the  ditterence  between  the  two 
men.  John  Mellish  had  as  high  and  stern  a 
sense  of  honor  as  Talbot  Bulstrode;  but  while 
the  Cornishman's  strength  of  brain  lay  in  the 
reflective  faculties,  the  Yorkshireman's  acute 
intellect  was  strongest  in  its  power  of  percep- 
tion.    Talbot  drove    himself  half  mad    with 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


61 


imagining  what  might  bo ;  John  saw  what 
was,  ancl  he  saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  tliat  the 
woman  he  loved  was  worthy  of  all  love,  and 
he  gave  his  peace  and  honor  fretdy  into  her 
keeping. 

He  had  his  reward.  He  had  his  reward  in 
her  franlt,  womanly  affection,  and  in  the 
delight  of  seeing  that  she  was  happy;  no 
eloud  upon  her  face,  no  shadow  on  her  life, 
hut  ever-beaming  joy  in  her  eyes,  ever-chang- 
ing smiles  upon  her  lips.  She  was  happy  in 
the  cahn  security  of  her  home,  happy  in  that 
pleasant  strong -hold  in  which  she  was  so 
fenced  about  and  guarded  by  love  and  devo- 
tion. 1  do  not  know  that  she  ever  felt  any 
romantic  or  enthusiastic  love  for  this  big 
Vorkshireman  ;  but  I  do  know  that  from  the 
tirst  hour  in  which  she  lai<l  her  head  upon  his 
broad  breast  she  was  true  to  him —  true  as  a 
wife  should  be;  true  in  every  thought,  true  in 
the  merest  shadow  of  a  thought.  A  wide 
gulf  yawned  around  the  altar  of  her  home, 
Separating  iter  from  every  other  n\an  In  the 
universe,  and  heaving  her  alone  with  that  one 
man  whom  she  had  accepted  as  her  hu.^-band. 
She  had  acci-ptcd  him  in  the  truest  and  pur- 
est sense  of  the  word.  Siie  had  accepted  him 
from  the  hand  of  God  as  the  protector  and 
shelterer  of  her  life;  and,  morning  and  night, 
upon  her  knees  she  thanked  the  gracious 
Creator  who  had  made  this  man  for  her  help- 
meet. 

But,  alter  duly  setting  down  ail  this.  I 
have  to  eonl'ess  that  {)Oor  John  Mellish  was 
cruelly  hen-pecked.  Such  big.  blustering 
fellows  are  created  to  be  the  mu;;h-enduring 
subjects  of  petticoat  government;  and  they 
carry  the  rosy  garlands  until  their  dying  hour 
with  a  sublime  consciousness  that  those  lloral 
chains  are  not  very  easy  to  be  broken.  Your 
little  man  is  self-assertive,  and  for  ever  on  his 
guard  against  womanly  domination.  All  ty- 
rannical husbands  on  record  have  I)een  little 
men,  from  Mr.  Daniel  (^uilp  uj)ward  ;  i)ut 
who  could  ever  convinee  a  fellow  of  six  feet 
two  in  his  stockings  that  he  was  afraid  of  his 
wife  ?  He  sid)mlts  to  the  ptitty  tyrant  with  a 
quiet  smile  of  resignation.  What  does  it  mat- 
ter? She  is  .so  little,  so  fragile:  he  could 
break  that  tiny  wrist  with  one  twist  of  his  big 
thumb  and  finger;  and,  in  the  meantime,  till 
alVairs  get  desperate,  and  such  measures  be- 
come necessary,  it  's  a"<  well  to  let  her  have; 
her  own  way. 

John  Mellish  dill  iu)t  even  debate  the  point. 
He  loved  her,  and  he  laid  himself  down  to  be 
trampled  upon  by  her  gracious  feet.  AVhat- 
evcr  slu;  diil  or  said  was  charming,  bewitch- 
ing, and  wonderful  to  him.  If  she  ridlcided 
or  laughed  at  him,  her  laugliter  was  the 
sweetest  hannonj'  in  creation  ;  and  it  pleased 
him  to  think  that  his  absurdities  could  give 
birth  to  such  mupic.  If  she  lectured  him,  she- 
arose  to  the  subilmify  of  a  priestess,  ami  he 
listened   to  her   and    worshipped   her  as  th'' 


most  noble  of  living  creatures.  And,  with  all 
this,  his  innate  manliness  of  character  pre- 
served him  from  any  taint  of  that  quality 
our  argoi  has  christened  spooneyism.  It  was 
only  those  who  knew  him  well  and  watched 
him  closely  who  could  fathom  the.  full  depths 
of  his  tender  weakness.  The  noblest  senti- 
ments approach  most  nearly  to  the  universal, 
and  this  love  of  John's  was  in  a  manner  uni- 
versal. It  was  the  love  of  husband,  father, 
mother,  brother,  melted  into  one  comprehen- 
sive alfection.  He  had  a  mother's  weak  jjrlde 
in  Aurora,  a  mother's  foolish  vanity  in  the 
wonderful  creature,  the-  ram  oris  he  had  won 
from  her  nest  to  be  his  wife. 

If  Mrs.  Mellish  was  eompllmented  while 
John  stood  by,  he  siuijiered  like,  a  school-girl 
who  blushes  at  a  handsome  man's  (irst  Hat- 
teries.  I  'ra  afraid  he  bored  iils  male  ac- 
(pialntance  about  "  my  wife  ;"  her  marvellous 
leap  over  the  bulHincih  ;  the  plan  she  drew 
for  the  new  stables,  "  which  the  architect  said 
was  a  better  plan  than  he  could  have  drawn 
himself,  sir,  by  gad"  (a  clever  man,  that  Don- 
caster  architect)  ;  the  surprising  manner  she 
had  discovered  the  fault  of  the  chestnut  colt's 
off  fore  leg;  the  pencil  sketch  she  had  made 
of  her  dog  Bow-wow  ("  Sir  Edwin  Landsecr 
might  have  been  proud  of  such  spirit  and 
dash,  sir") — all  these  things  did  the  country 
gentlemen  hear,  until,  perhaps,  they  grew  a 
shade  weary  of  John's  talk  of  "  my  wife." 
But  they  wei*e  never  weary  of  Aurora  her- 
self She  took  her  placf  at  once  among  them, 
and  they  bowed  down  to  her  and  worshipped 
her,  envying  John  Mellish  the  ownership  of 
such  a  high-bred  filly,  as  I  fear  thc^y  were  but 
likely,  unconsciously,  to  designate  my  black- 
eyed  heroine. 

The  domain  over  which  Aurora  found  her- 
self empress  was  no  inconsiderable  one.   John 
]\IelHsh  had  Inherited  an  estate  which  brought 
him  an  income  of  something  between  £lC, 000 
and  £17,000  a  year.     Far-away  fivrms,  upon 
wide  Yorkshire  wolds  and  fenny  Lincolnshire 
flats,   owned    him   master ;  and    the   intricate 
I  secrets  ot  his  possessions  were  scarcely  known 
I  to  himself — known,  perhaps,  to  none  but  his 
I  land-steward  and  solicitor,  a  grave  gentleman 
:  who  lived  In  Doncaster,  and  drove  about  once 
I  a  fortnight  down  to  Mcdiish  Park,  much  to  the. 
'  horror  of  his  light-hearted  master,  to  whom 
;  "  business"  was  a  terrible  bugbear.     Not  that 
j  I  would  have  the  reader  for  a  n)oment  imagine 
,  John    Mellish   an   empty-headed    blockhead. 
!  with  no  comprehension  .^ave  for  his  own  daily 
,  pleasures.     He  was  not  a  reading  man,  nor  a 
I  business  man,  nor  a  politician,  nor  a  student 
I  of  the  natural  sciences. 

j  Tliere  was  an  observatory  in  the  park,  but 
John  had  fitted  it  up  a=  a  smoking-nxmi,  the 
;  revolvini;  openings  in  the  roof  being  very 
I  r-onrenient  tor  letting  out  the  edliivia  of  hi« 
]  guests'  cheroots  and  Havanas,  Mr.  Mellish 
I  caring  for  the  stars  very  much  after  the  fash- 


62 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


ion  ot'  tliat  Assyrian  monarch  wlio  was  content 
to  see  them  shine,  and  thank  their  Maker  for 
their  beauty.  He  was  not  a  spiritualist,  and, 
unless  one  of  the  tables  at  Mellish  could  have 
iriven  him  "a  tip"  fur  the  "Sellinjier"  or 
Great  Ebor,  he  would  have  cared  very  little 
if  every  incli  of  walnut  and  rose-wood  in  his 
house  had  grown  oracular.  But.  for  all  this. 
he  was  no  fool ;  lie  had  that  brightly  clear 
intellect  which  very  oiten  accompanies  per- 
fect honesty  of  purpose,  and  which  is  the 
very  intellect  of  all  others  most  succcs.sful  in 
the  discomfiture  of  all  knavery.  lie  was  not 
a  creature  to  despise,  for  his  very  weaknesses 
were  manly.  Perhaps  Aurora  felt  this,  and 
that  it  was  something  to  rule  over  such  a 
man.  Sometimes,  in  an  outburst  of  loving 
gratitude,  she  would  nestle  her  handsome 
head  upon  his  breast  —  tall  as  she  was,  she 
was  only  tall  enough  to  take  shelter  under  his 
wing  —  and  tell  him  that  he  was  the  dearest 
and  the  best  of  men,  and  that,  although  she 
might  love  him  to  her  dying  day,  she  could 
never,  never,  never  love  him  half  as  much  as 
he  deserved.  After  which,  half  ashamed  of 
herself  for  the  sentimental  declaj-ation,  she 
would  alternately  ridicnle,  lecture,  and  tyr- 
annize over  him  tor  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Lucy  beheld  this  state  of  things  with  silent 
bewilderment.     Could  the  woman  who   had 
once  been  loved  by  Talbot  Bulstrode  sink  to  ] 
this  —  the  happy  wife  of  a  fair-haired  York- 
shireman,  with  her  fondest  wishes  concentred  \ 
in  her  namesake,  the  bay  filly,  which  was  to  j 
run    in   a   weight-for-age   race   at   the  Y^ork  ' 
Spring,   and   was   entered    for    the   ensuing  I 
Derby;   interested   in    a   tan -gallop,  a   new  | 
stable ;  talking  of  raysterions   but   evidently  j 
all-important  creatures,  called  by  such  names  ' 
as  Scott,  and  Fobert,  and  Challoner;  and,  to 
all  appearance,  utterly  forgetful  of  the  fact 
that  there  existed  upon  the  earth  a  divinity 
with  fathomless  gray  ej-es,  known  as  the  heir 
of  Bulstrode  ?     Poor  Lucy  was  like  to  have 
been  driv(.>n  wellnigh  demented  by  the   talk 
about   tliis   bay    lilly    Aurora   as    the  spi'ing 
meeting  drew  near.     She  was  taken  to  see  it 
every  morning  by  Aurora  and  John,  who,  in 
their  anxiety  for  the    improvement  of  their 
favorite,  looked  at  the  animal  upon  each  visit 
as  if  they  expected  some  wonderful  physical 
transformation  to  have  occurred  in  the"  still- 
ness of  the  night.     The  loose  box  in  which 
the  filly  Avas  lodged  was  watched  night  and 
day  by  an  amateur  detective  i'orcc.  of  stable- 
boys  and  hangers-on  ;  and  John  Mellish  once 
went  so  far  as  to  dip  a  tumbler  into  the  pail 
of  water  provided  for  the  bay  filly  Aurora,  to 
ascertain,   of  his   own    experience,  that   the 
crystal  fluid  vvjas  innocuous;  for  he  grew  ner- 
vous as  the  eventful  day  drew  nigh,  and  was 
afraid  of  lurking  danger  to  the  filly  from  dark- 
minded  touts  who  might  have  heard  of  her  in 
London.    1  fear  the  touts  troubled  their  heads 
v*ry  little  about  this  graceful  two-year  old, 


though  she  had  the  blood  of  Old  Melbourne 
and  West  Australian  in  her  veins,  to  say 
nothing  of  other  aristocracy  upon  the  mater- 
nal side. 

The    suspicious   gentlemen  lianging  jtbout 

York  and  Doncaster  in  those  early  April  day? 

were   a  great  deal   too  much  occupied  with 

'  Lord  Glasgow's  lot,  and  John  Scott's  lot,  and 

i  Lord  Zetland's,  and  Mr.  Merry's  lot,  and  other 

lots  of  equal  distinction,  to  have  much  time 

I  to  prowl    about  Mellish  Park,  or    peer   into 

that  meadow  which  the  young  man  had  caused 

i  to  be  surrounded  by  an  eight-foot  fence  for 

the  privacy  of  the  Derby  winner  in  futuro. 

Lucy  declared  the  filly  to  be  thoi- loveliest 

of  creatures,  and  safe  to  win  any  number  of 

:  cups   and    plates   that   might  be   offered  for 

equine  competition;  but  she  was  always  glad. 

when  the  daily  visit  was  over,  to  find  herseli' 

:  safely  out  of  reach  of  those  high  -  bred   hind 

'  legs,  which  seemed   to   possess   a  faculty  for 

i  being  in  all  four  corners  of  the  loose  box  at 

one  and  the  same  moment. 

The  first  day  of  the  meeting  came,  and 
found  half  the  Mellish  household  established 
at  York ;  John  and  his  family  at  a  hotel  near 
the  betting-rooms;  and  the  trainer,  his  satel- 
lites, and  the  filly,  at  a  little  inn  close  to  the 
Knavesmire. 

Archibald  Floyd  did  his  best  to  be  interest- 
ed in  the  event  which  was  so  interesting  to 
his  children  ;  but  he  freely  confessed  to  his 
grand-niece  Lucy  that  he  heartily  wished  the 
meeting  over,  and  the  merits  of  the  bay  filly 
decided.  She  had  stood  her  trial  nobly,  John 
said  ;  not  winning  with  a  rush,  it  is  true  :  in 
point  of  fact,  being  in  a  manner  beaten  ;  but 
evincing  a  power  to  stay,  which  promised 
better  for  the  future  than  any  two-year-old 
velocity.  When  the  saddling-bell  rang,  Au- 
rora, her  father,  and  Lucy  were  stationed  in 
the  balcony,  a  crowd  of  friends  about  them  ; 
Mrs.  Mellish,  with  a  pencil  in  her  hand,  put- 
ting down  all  manner  of  impossible  bets  in 
her  excitement,  and  making  such  a  book  as 
might  have  been  preserved  as  a  curiosity  in 
sporting  annals.  John  was  pushing  in  ami 
out  of  the  ring  below,  tumbling  over  small 
bookmen  in  his"  agitation,  dashing  from  the 
ring  to  the  weighing  -  house,  and  hanging 
about  the  small,  pale-faced  boy  who  was  to 
ride  the  filly  as  anxiously  as  if  the  jockey  had 
been  a  prime  minister,  and  John  a  family 
man  with  half  a  dozen  sons  in  need  of  gov- 
v;rnment  appointments.  I  tremble  to  think 
how  many  bonuses,  in  the  way  of  five-pound 
notes,  John  promised  the  pale-faced  lad  on 
condition  that  the  stakes  (some  small  matter 
amounting  to  about  A! (JO)  were  pulled  off — 
pulled  off  where,  I  wonder  —  by  the  bay  filly 
Aurora.  If  the  youth  had  not  been  of  that 
preternatural  order  of  being  who  seem  born 
of  an  emotionless  character  to  wear  silk  for 
the  good  of  their  fellow-men,  bis  brain  must 
certainly  have  been  dazed  by  the  variety  ol" 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


G3 


I'onflicting  directions  wliirli  John  MelHsh  j 
gave  him  within  the  critical  last  quarter  of  an  I 
hour;  but,  having  received  his  orders  early  | 
that  morning  from  the  trainer,  accompanied  ! 
with  a  warning  not  to  suffer  himself  to  be  ; 
tewed  (Yorkshire  pafois  for  worried)  by  any-  I 
thing  Mr.  Mcllish  might  say.  the  sallow-eom-  ! 
plexioned  lad  walked  about  in  the  calm  j 
serenity  of  innocence  —  there  are  honest  ! 
jockeys  in  tlie  world,  thank  Heaven  !  and  j 
took  his  seat  in  the  saddle  with  as  even  a  ■ 
pulse  as  if  he  had  been  about  to  ride  in  an  j 
omnibus.  ■ 

There  wen^  some  jteople  upon  the  stand  i 
that  morning  who  thought  the  face  of  Aurora  | 
Mellish  as  pleasant  a  sight  as  the  smooth  ' 
green  sward  of  tlie  Knavesmire,  or  the  best  | 
horse-flesh  in  the  county  of  York.  All  forget-  [ 
ful  of  herself  in  her  excitement,  Avith  her  '• 
natural  vivacity  multiplied  by  the  animation 
of  the  s<;ene  before  her,  she  was  more  than  | 
usually  lovely  ;  and  Arcliibald  Floyd  looked  ; 
at  her  witli  a  fond  emotion,  so  intermingled  I 
with  gratitude  to  Heaven  for  the  happiness  of: 
his  daughter's  destiny  a?  to  be  almost  akin  to  j 
pain.  Slie  was  iiai»py  —  she  was  tlun-oughly  ' 
happy  at  last  —  the  child  of  his  dead  F>liza,  I 
this  sacred  charge  left  to  him  by  the  woman 
he  had  loved  ;  she  was  happy,  and  slie  was  ' 
safe ;  he  could  go  to  his  grave  resignetHy  to-  ' 
morrow,  if  it  pleased  Ood,  knowing  this.  : 
Strange  thoughts,  perhaps,  ibr  a  crowded  ' 
race-course;  but  our  most  solemn  fancies  do  i 
not  come  always  in  solemn  places.  Xay,  it  is  • 
often  in  the  midst  of  crowds  and  contusion 
that  our  souls  wing  their  lot'ticst  flights,  and  ' 
the  saddest  memories  return  to  us.  You  see  a  ' 
man  sitting  at  some  theatrical  entertainment  j 
with  a  grave,  abstracted  face,  over  which  no 
cdiange  of  those  around  him  has  any  influence,  j 
He  may  be  thinking  of  his  dead  wife,  dead 
ten  years  ago ;  he  may  be  acting  over  well-  I 
remembercnl  scenes  of  joy  and  sorrow ;  he  1 
may  be  recalling  cruid  words,  never  to  be  ' 
atoned  for  upon  earth  —  angry  looks,  gone  to 
be  registercti  against  him  in  the.  skies,  while  i 
his  children  are  laughing  at  the  clown  on  the  I 
stage  below  him.  He  may  be  moodily  medi-  i 
tating  inevitable  bankruptcy  or  coining  ruin,  j 
holding  imaginary  meetings  with  his  creditors,  | 
and  contem[)lating  prussic  acid  upon  the  refu-  { 
sal  of  his  certificate,  while  his  eldest  daughter 
is  crying  with  Pauline  l)es(  hapelles.  So  | 
Archibald  Floyd,  while  the  numbers  were  j 
going  up,  and  the  jockeys  being  weighed,  and  I 
ihe  bookmen  clamoring  below  him,  leaneil  ! 
over  the  broad  ledge  of  the  stt)ne  balcony,  : 
aud,  looking  far  away  across  the  grassy  am-  | 
phitheatre.  thou'^ht  of  his  d<Nid  wife  who  had  I 
bequeathed  to  him  this  ]»recious  datighter.         j 

The  bay  filly  Aurora  was  beaten  ignomini-  ' 
ously.      Mrs.   Mellish   turned  white   with  de-  ' 
spair,  as  she  saw  the  amber  jacket,  bla<k  belt, 
and  blue  cap  crawlin-;  in  at  the  heels  of  the 
ruck,  the  jockey  looking  palo  defiance  at  the  ' 


by-standers ;  as  who  should  say  that  the  filly 
had  never  been  meant  to  win,  and  that  the 
defeat  of  to-day  was  but  an  artfully-concocted 
ruse  whereby  fortunes  were  to  be  made  in  the 
future?  John  Mellish,  something  used  to 
such  disappointments,  crept  away  to  hide  his 
discomfiture  outside  the  ring;  but  Aurora 
dropped  her  card  and  pencil,  and,  stamping 
her  foot  upon  the  stone  flooring  of  the  balco- 
ny, told  Lucy  and  the  banker  that  it  was  a 
shame,  and  that  the  boy  must  have  sold  the 
race,  as  it  was  impossible  that  the  filly  could 
have  been  fairly  beaten.  As  she  turned  to 
.say  this,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  passion,  and 
her  eyes  flashing  bright  indignation  on  any 
one  who  might  stand  in  the  way  to  receive 
the  angry  electric  li"ht,  she  became  aware  of 
a  pale  f;\ce  and  a  pair  of  gray  eyes  earnestly 
I'egarding  her  from  the  threshold  of  an  open 
window  two  oi"  three  j)aces  off,  and  in  another 
moment  both  she  and  her  father  had  recog- 
nized Talbot  Bul.itrode. 

The  young  man  saw  that  he  was  recog- 
nized, and  approached  them,  hat  in  hand — 
very,  very  pale,  as  Lucy  always  rcineml)ered — 
and,  with  a  voice  that  trembled  as  he  spoke, 
wisheil  the  banker  and  the  two  ladies  "  Good- 
day." 

And  it  was  thus  that  they  met,  the.se  two 
who  had  '•  partcMl  in  silence  and  tears,"  more 
than  "  half  broken-hearted,"  to  sever,  as  they 
thought,  for  eternity  ;  it  was  thus,  upon  this 
common))lace,  prosaic,  half- guinea  grand 
stand — that  Destiny  brought  them  once  more 
face  to  face. 

A  year  ago,  and  how  often  in  the  spring 
twilight  Aurora  Floyd  had  pictured  her  pos- 
sible meeting  with  Talbot  Bulstrodc !  He 
would  come  upon  her  suddenly,  perhaps,  in 
the  still  moonlight,  and  she  would  swoon 
away  and  die  at  his  feet  of  the  unendurable 
emotion  ;  or  they  would  meet  in  some  crowd- 
ed assembly,  she  dancing,  laughing  with  hol- 
low, simulated  mirth,  and  the  shock  of  one 
glance  of  those  eyes  would  slay  her  in  her 
painted  glory  of  jewels  and  grandeur.  How 
often,  ah  I  how  often  she  had  aeted  the  scene 
and  felt  the  anguish  !  only  a  year  ago,  less 
than  a  year  ago,  ay  !  even  so  lately  as  on  that 
balmy  September  day  when  she  had  laid  on 
the  rustic  couch  at  the  Chateau  d'Arques, 
looking  down  at  the  fair  Normandy  landscape, 
with  faithful  John  at  watch  by  her  side,  the 
tame  gonts  browsing  upon  the  grassy  plat- 
form behind  her,  and  preternatiirally  ancient 
French  children  teasing  the  mild,  long-sufler- 
in<^  animals;  and  to-day  she  met  him  with  her 
thoughts  so  full  of  the  lior.«e  that  had  just 
been  beaten  that  she  scarcely  knew  what  she 
.said  to  her  sometime  lover.  Aurora  Floyd 
was  dead  an<l  buried,  and  Aurora  Mellish, 
lookiuc;  critically  at  Talbot  Rulstrode,  won- 
dered liow  any  one  could  liflve  ever  gone  near 
to  the  gates  of  death  for  the  love,  of  him. 

It  wa*  Talbot  who  grew  pale  at  this  un- 


04 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


looked -for  encounter;  it  was  Talbot  whose 
voice  was  shaken  in  the  utterance  of  those 
few  evcrj-tlay  syllables  which  common  cour- 
tesy demanded  of  him.  The  captain  had  not 
so  easily  learned  to  forget.  He  was  older 
than  Aurora,  and  he  had  reached  the  atje  of 
two-and- thirty  without  having  ever  loved 
woman,  only  to  be  more  desperately  attacked 
bv  the  fataf  disease  when  his  time  came.  He 
auffercd  acutely  at  that  .sudden  meeting. — 
Wounded  in  his  pride  by  her  serene  indiffer- 
ence, dazzled  afresli  by  her  beauty,  mad  with 
jealous  fury  at  the  thought  that  he  had  lost 
her,  Captain  Bulstrode's  feelings  were  of  no 
very  envinblo  nature ;  and,  if  Aurora  had 
ever  wished  to  avenge  that  cruel  scene  at 
Felden  Woods,  her  hour  of  vengeance  had 
most  certainly  come.  But  she  was  too  gen- 
erous a  creature  to  have  harbored  such  a 
thought.  She  had  submitted  in  all  humility 
to  Talbot's  decree ;  she  had  accepted  his  de- 
rision, and  had  believed  in  its  justice;  and, 
seeing  his  agitation  to-day,  she  was  sorry  for 
him.  She  pitied  him  with  a  tendei-,  matronly 
compassion,  such  as  she,  in  the  safe  harbor  of 
a  happy  home,  might  be  privileged  to  feel  for 
this  poor  wanderer  still  at  sea  on  life's  troub- 
led '  ocean.  Love,  and  the  memory  of  love, 
must  indeed  have  died  before  we  can  feel  like 
thi.s.  The  terrible  passion  must  have  died 
that  slow  and  certain  death  from  the  grave 
of  which  no  haunting  ghost  ever  returns  to 
torment  the  survivors.  It  was,  and  it  is  not. 
Aurora  might  have  been  shipwi-eeked  and 
cast  on  a  desert  island  with  Talbot  Bulstrode, 
and  might  have  lived  ten  years  in  his  com- 
pany without  ever  feeling  for  ten  seconds  as 
she  had  felt  for  him  once.  With  these  im- 
petuous and  impressionable  people,  who  live 
quickly,  a  year  is  sometimes  as  twenty  years; 
so  Aurora  looked  back  at  Talbot  Bulstrode 
across  a  gulf  which  stretched  for  weary  miles 
between  them,  and  wondered  if  they  had 
really  ever  stood  side  by  side,  allied  by  hope 
and  love,  in  the  days  that  were  gone. 

While  Aurora  Avas  thinking  of  these  things, 
as  well  as  a  little  of  tlie  bay  filly,  and  while 
Talbot,  half  choked  by  a  thousand  confused 
emotions,  tried  to  apjjcar  preternaturally  at 
his  ease,  Joliti  Mellisli,  having  refreshed  his 
spirits  with  bottled  beer,  came  suddenly  upon 
the  pai-ty,  and  slapped  the  captain  on  the 
ba^k. 

He  was  not  jenlou.^,  this  happy  John.  Se- 
cure in  his  wife's  love  and  truth,  he  was  ready 
to  face  a  regiment  of  her  old  admirers  ;  in- 
deed, he  ryther  delighted  in  the  idea  of 
avenging  Aurora  upon  this  cowardly  lover. 
Talbot  glanced  involuntarily  at  the  inembers 
of  the  York  constabulary  on  the  course  be- 
low, womlering  how  they  would  act  if  he 
were  to  fling  John  Mellish  over  the  stone 
balcony,  and  do  a  murder  then  and  there.  He 
was  thinking  this  while  John  was  nearly 
wringing  off  his  hand  in   cordial   salutation. 


and  asking  what  the  deuce  had  brought  him 
to  the  York  Spring. 

Talbot  explained  rather  lamely  that,  being 
knocked  up  by  his  Parliamentary  work,  he 
had  come  down  to  spend  a  few  days  with  an 
old  brother-officer.  Captain  Hunter,  who  had 
a  place  between  Y'ork  and  Leeds. 

Mr.  Mellish  declared  that  nothing  could  be 
more  lucky  than  this.  He  knew  Hunter 
well;  the  two  men  must  join  them  at  dinner 
that  day  !  and  Talbot  must  give  them  a  week 
at  the  Park  after  he  left  the  captain's  place. 

Talbot  murmured  some  vague  protestation 
of  the  impossibility  of  this,  to  which  John 
paid  no  attention  whatever,  hustling  his  some- 
time rival  away  from  the  ladies  in  his  eager- 
ness to  get  back  to  the  ring,  where  he  had  to 
complete  his  book  for  the  next  race. 

So  Captain  Bulstrode  was  gone  once  more, 
and  throughout  the  brief  interview  no  one 
had  cared  to  notice  Lucy  Floyd,  who  had 
been  pale  and  red  by  turns  half  a  dozen  times 
within  the  last  ten  minutes. 

John  and  Talbot  returned  after  the  start, 
with  Captain  Hunter,  who  was  brought  on  to 
the  stand  to  be  presented  to  Aurora,  ami  who 
immediately  entered  into  a  vary  animated 
discussion  upon  the  day's  racing.  How  Cap- 
tain Bulstrode  abhorred  this  idle  babble  of 
horse-flesh,  this  perpetual  jargon,  alike  in 
every  mouth,  from  Aurora's  rosy  Cupid's  bow 
to  the  tobacco-tainted  lips  of  the  bookmen  in 
the  ring !  Thank  Heaven,  this  was  not  his 
wife,  who  knew  all  the  slang  of  the  course, 
and,  with  lorgnette  in  hand,  was  craning  her 
swan-like  throat  to  catch  sight  of  a  wind  in  the 
Knavesmire  and  the  horse  that  had  a  lead  of 
half  a  mile. 

Why  had  he  ever  consented  to  come  into 
this  accursed  horse-racing  county  V  Why 
had  he  deserted  the  Cornish  miners  even  for 
a  week  ?  Better  to  be  wearing  out  his  brains 
over  Dryasdust  pamphlets  and  Parliamentary 
minutes  than  to  be  here,  desolate  among  this 
shallow-minded,  clamorous  multiiude,  who 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  throw  up  caps  and 
cry  huzza  for  any  winner  of  any  i-aee.  Tal- 
bot, as  a  by-stander,  could  not  but  remark 
this,  and  draw  from  this  something  of  a  philo- 
sophical lesson  on  life.  He  saw  that  there 
was  always  the  same  clamor  and  the  same  re- 
joicing in  the  crowd,  whether  the  winning 
jockey  wore  blue  and  black  belt,  yellow  and 
black  cap,  white  with  scarlet  spots,  or  any 
other  variety  of  color,  even  to  dismal  sable ; 
and  he  could  but  wonder  how  this  was.  Did 
the  unlucky  speculators  run  away  and  hide 
themselves  while  the  uplifted  voices  were  re- 
joicing ?  When  the  welkin  was  rent  with 
the  name  of  Kettledrum,  where  were  the 
men  who  had  backed  Dundee  unflinchingly 
up  to  the  dropping  of  the  flag  and  the  ring- 
ing of  the  bell  V  When  Tliormanby  came  in 
with  a  rush,  where  were  the  wretched  creat- 
ures   whose    fortunes    hung   on    Umpire    or 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


65 


Wizard  ?  They  were  voiceless,  these  pooi* 
unlucky  ones,  crawling  away  with  sick  white 
faces,  to  gather  in  groups  and  explain  to  each 
other,  with  stable  jargon  intermingled  with 
oaths,  how  it  ought  not  to  have  been,  and 
never  could  have  been,  but  for  some  unlooked- 
for  and  preposterous  combination  of  events 
never  before  witnessed  upon  any  mortal 
course.  How  little  is  ever  seen  of  the  losers 
in  any  of  the  great  races  run  upon  this  earth  ? 
For  years  and  ^'cars  the  name  of  Louis  Napo- 
leon is  an  empty  sound,  si";nifying  nothing; 
when,  lo!  a  few  master-strokes  of  policy  and 
JinesKe,  a  little  juggling  with  those  pieces  of 
pasteboard  out  of  which  are  built  the  shaky 
card-palaces  men  call  emjiires,  and  creation 
rings  with  the  same  name ;  the  outsider  emer- 
ges from  the  ruck,  and  the  purple  jacket, 
spotted  with  golden  bees,  is  foremost  in  the 
mighty  race. 

Talbot  liulstrode  leaned  with  folded  arms 
upon  the  stone  balustrade,  looking  down  at 
the  busy  lil'e  below  him,  and  tliiiiking  of 
these  things.  Pardon  him  for  his  indulgence 
in  dreary  platitudes  and  wornout  sentimen- 
talities, lie  was  a  desolate,  purposeless  man ; 
entered  for  no  race  himself;  scratched  for  the 
matrimonial  stakes;  embittered  by  disappoint- 
ment; soured  by  doubt  and  suspicion.  lie 
had  spent  the  dull  winter  months  upon  the 
Continent,  having  no  mind  to  go  down  to 
Bulstrode  to  encounter  his  mother's  sympathy 
and  his  cousin  Constance  Trevyllian's  chatter. 
He  was  unjust  enough  to  nourish  a  secret 
dislike  to  that  young  lady  for  the  good  ser- 
vice she  had  done  him  by  revealing  Aurora's 
flight. 

Are  we  ever  really  grateful  to  the  people 
who  fell  us  of  the  iniquity  of  those  we  love  ? 
Are  we  ever  really  just  to  the  kindly  creat- 
ures who  give  us  friendly  warning  of  our 
danger?  No,  never.  We  hate  tluun;  al- 
ways involuntarily  reverting  to  them  as  the 
first  cause  of  our  anguish  ;  always  repeating 
to  our.selves  that,  had  they  been  silent,  that 
anguish  need  never  have  been  ;  always  ready 
to  burst  forth  in  one  wild  rage  with  '.he 
mad  cry  that  "it  is  better  to  be  much  abused 
than  but  to  know  't  a  little."  When  the 
friendly  Ancient  drops  his  poisoned  hints  into 
poor  Othello's  ear,  it  is  not  Mrs.  Desdeniona, 
but  lago  himself,  whom  the  noble  Moor  first 
ha.**  a  mind  to  strangle.  If  poor,  innocent 
Constance  Trevyllian  had  been  born  the 
veriest  cur  in  the  county  of  Cornwall,  slu' 
would  have  had  a  better  chance  of  winning 
Talbot's  regard  than  she  had  now. 

Why  had  he  come  into  Yorkshire  ?  I  left 
that  question  unanswered  just  now,  for  I  am 
ashamed  to  tell  the  reasons  which  actuated 
this  unhaj)py  man.  He  came,  in  a  paroxysm 
of  curiosity,  to  learn  what  kind  of  life  Aurora 
led  with  luT  husband,  John  Mcllish.  He  liad 
suffered  horrible  distractions  of  mind  upon 
this  subject,  one  moment  imagining  her  the 


most  despicable  of  coquette.s,  ready  to  marry 
any  man  who  had  a  fair  estate  and  a  good 
position  to  offer  her,  and  by  and  by  depict- 
ing her  as  some  white-robed  Iphigenia,  led  a 
passive  victim  to  the  sacrificial  sliriiie.  So, 
when  happening  to  meet  this  good-natured 
brother-officer  at  the  United  Service  Club,  he 
had  consented  to  run  down  to  Captain  Hunt- 
er's conntiy  place  for  a  brief  respite  from 
Parliamentary  minutes  and  red  tape,  the  ai-t- 
ful  hypocrite  had  never  owned  to  him.self  that 
he  was  burning  to  hear  tidings  of  his  false 
and  fickle  love,  and  that  it  was  some  lingering 
fumes  of  the  old  intoxication  that  carried  him 
down  to  Yorkshire.  But  now  —  now  that  he 
met  her  —  met  her,  the  heartless,  abominable 
creature,  radiant  and  happy — mere  simulated 
happiness  and  feverish  mock  radiance,  no 
doubt,  but  too  well  put  on  to  be  (juite  pleas- 
ing to  him  —  now  he  knew  her.  He  knew 
her  at  last,  the  wicked  enchantress,  the  soul- 
less siren.  He  knew  that  she  had  never  loved 
him;  that  she  was,  of  course,  powerless  to 
love;  good  for  nothing  but  to  wreathe  her 
white  arms  and  flash  the  dark  splendor  of  her 
eyes  for  weak  man's  destruction  ;  fit  for  noth- 
ing but  to  float  in  her  beauty  above  the  waves 
that  concealed  the  bleached  bones  of  her  vic- 
tims. Poor  John  Mellish  !  Talbot  reproached 
himself  lor  his  hardness  of  heart  in  nourish- 
ing one  spiteful  feeling  toward  a  man  who 
was  so  deeply  to  be  pitied. 

When  the  race  was  done  Captain  Bul- 
strode turned  and  beheld  the  black-eyed  sor- 
ceress in  the  midst  of  a  group  gathered  about 
a  grave  patriarch,  with  gray  hair,  and  the 
look  of  one  accustomed  to  command. 

This  grave  patriarch  was  John  Pastern. 

I  write  his  name  with  respect,  even  as  it  was 
reverentially  whispered  there,  till,  travelling 
from  lip  to  lip,  every  one  present  knew  that 
a  great  man  was  among  them.  A  vi  ry  quiet, 
unassuming  veteran,  sitting  with  his  woman- 
kind about  him  —  his  wife  and  daughter,  as  I 
think  —  .self-pos-essed  and  grave,  while  men 
were  bu.sy  with  his  name  in  the  crowd  below, 
and  while  tens  of  thousands  were  staked  in 
trusting  dependence  on  his  acumen.  What 
golden  syllables  might  have  fallen  from  those 
orai'ular  lips  had  tiie  veteran  been  so  pleased! 
What  hundreds  would  have  been  freely  bid- 
den for  a  word,  a  look,  a  nod,  a  wink,  a  mere 
significant  pursing-up  of  the  lips  from  that 
great  man  I  What  is  the  fable  of  the  young 
lady  who  (]iscourse<l  pearls  and  diamonds  to  a 
truth  su(di  a."?  this!  Pearls  and  diamond.^ 
must  be  of  a  large  size  which  would  be  worth 
the  secrets  of  those  llirhmond  stables,  the 
secrets  wliich  Mr.  Pastern  might  tell  if  he 
chose.  Perhaps  it  is  the  knowledge  of  this 
which  gives  him  a  calm,  almo.'t  clerical  grarity 
of  manner.  People  come  to  hlin,  an«l  fawn 
upon  him,  and  tell  him  that  such  and  such  a 
lutr.^e  from  his  stable  has  won,  or  looks  safe  tm 
win  ;  and  he  nods  pleasantly,  thanking  them 


ce 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


for  the  kind  information,  while  perhaps  his 
thoughts  arc  far  away  on  Epsom  Downs  or 
Newmarket  Flats,  winning  future  Derbys  and 
two  thousands  with  colts  that  are  as  yet  un- 
foaled. 

John  Mellish  is  on  intimate  terms  with  the 
threat  man,  to  whom  he  presents  Aurora,  and 
of  whom  he  asks  advice  upon  a  matter  that 
has  been  troubling  him  for  some  time.  His 
trainer's  health  is  failing  him,  and  he  wants 
assistance  in  the  stables  —  a  younger  man, 
honest  and  clever.  Does  Mr.  Pastern  know 
such  a  one  ? 

The  veteran  tells  him,  after  due  consider- 
ation, that  he  does  know  of  a  young  man  — 
honest,  he  believes,  as  times  go  —  who  was 
once  employed  in  the  Richmond  stables,  and 
who  had  written  to  him  only  a  few  days  be- 
fore, asking  for  his  influence  in  getting  him  a 
situation.  "  But  the  lad's  name  has  slipped 
my  memory,"  added  Mr.  Pastern ;  "  he  was 
but  a  lad  when  he  was  with  me;  but,  bless 
my  soul,  that 's  teu  years  ago!  I  'II  look  up 
his  letter  when  I  go  home,  and  write  to  you 
about  him.  I  know  he  's  clever,  and  I  believe 
he  's  honest;  and  I  shall  be  only  too  happy," 
concluded  the  old  gentleman,  gallantly,  "  to 
do  anything  to  oblige  Mrs.  Mellish." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

''LOVE    TOOK    UP   THK   GLASS   OF    TIMK    AND 
TURNED  IT  IN  HIS  GLOWING   HANDS." 

Talbot  Bulstrode  yielded  at  last  to  John's 
repeated  invitations,  and  consented  to  pass  a 
couple  of  days  at  Mellish  Park. 

He  despised  and  hated  himself  for  the  ab- 
surd concession.  In  what  a  pitiful  farce  had 
the  tragedy  ended  !  A  visitor  in  the  house  of 
his  rival — a  calm  spectator  of  Aurora's  every- 
day, commonplace  happiness.  For  the  space 
of  two  days  he  had  consented  to  occupy  this 
most  preposterous  position.  Two  days  only ; 
then  back  to  the  Cornish  miners,  and  the  deso- 
late bachelor's  lodgings  in  Queeu's  Square, 
Westminster;  back  to  his  tent  in  life's  great 
Sahara.  He  could  not,  for  the  very  soul 
of  him,  resist  the  temptation  of  beholding  the 
inner  life  of  that  Yorkshire  mansion.  He 
wanted  to  know  for  certain  —  what  was  it  to 
him,  I  wonder  —  whether  she  was  really 
happy,  and  had  utterly  forgotten  him.  They 
all  returned  to  the  Park  together —  Aurora, 
John,  Archibald  Floyd,  Lucy,  Talbot  Bul- 
strode, and  Captain  Hunter.  The  last-named 
officer  was  a  jovial  gentleman,  with  a  hook 
nose  and  auburn  whiskers;  a  gentleman  whose 
intellectual  attainments  were  of  no  very  op- 
pressive order,  but  a  hearty,  pleasant  guest  in 
an  honest  country  mansion,  where  there  is 
cheer  and  welcome  for  all. 

Talbot  could  but  inwardly  confess  that  Au- 


rora became  her  new  position.  How  every- 
body loved  her!  What  an  atmosphere  of 
happiness  she  created  about  her  whei-ever 
she  went!  How  joyously  the  dogs  barked 
and  leaped  at  sight  of  her,  straining  their 
chains  in  the  desperate  effort  to  approach 
her!  How  fearlessly  the  thorough-bred  mares 
and  foals  ran  to  the  paddock-gates  to  bid  her 
welcome,  bending  down  their  velvet  nostrils 
to  nestle  upon  her  shoulder,  or  respond  to  the 
touch  of  her  caressing  hand !  Seeing  all  this, 
how  could  Talbot  refrain  from  remembering 
that  the  same  sunlight  might  have  shone  upon 
that  dreary  castle  far  away  by  the  surging 
Western  Sea?  She  might  have  been  his, 
this  beautiful  creature;  but  at  Avhat  price? 
At  the  price  of  honor ;  at  the  price  of  every 
principle  of  his  mind,  which  had  set  up  for 
himself  a  holy  and  perfect  standard  —  a  pure 
and  spotless  ideal  for  the  wife  of  his  choice. 
Forbid  it,  manhood !  He  might  have  weakly 
yielded;  he  might  have  been  happy,  with  the 
blind  happiness  of  a  lotus-eater,  but  not  the 
reasonable  bliss  of  a  Christian.  Thank  Heav- 
en for  the  strength  which  had  been  given  him 
to  escape  from  the  silken  net!  Thank  Heav- 
en for  the  power  which  had  been  granted  to 
him  to  fight  the  battle ! 

Standing  by  Aurora's  side  in  one  of  the 
■wide  windows  at  Mellish  Park,  looking  far 
out  over  the  belted  lawn  to  the  glades  in 
which  the  deer  lay  basking  drowsily  in  the 
April  sunlight,  he  could  not  repress  the 
thought  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"  I  am  —  very  glad  —  to  see  you  so  happy, 
Mrs.  Mellish." 

She  looked  at  him  with  frank,  truthful  ej'es, 
in  whose  brightness  there  was  not  one  latent 
shadow. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  am  very,  very  happy. 
My  husband  is  very  good  to  me.  He  loves  — 
and  trusts  me." 

She  could  not  resist  that  one  little  stab  — 
the  only  vengeance  she  ever  took  upon  him, 
but  a  stroke  that  pierced  him  to  the  heart. 

"  Aurora  !  Aurora  !  Aurora  !"  he  cried. 

That  half-stifled  cry  revealed  the  secret  of 
wounds  that  were  not  yet  healed.  Mrs.  Mel- 
lish turned  pale  at  the  traitorous  sound.  This 
man  must  be  cured.  The  happy  wife,  secure 
in  her  own  strong-hold  of  love  and  confi- 
dence, could  not  bear  to  see  this  poor  fellow 
still  adrift. 

She  by  no  means  despaired  of  his  cure,  for 
experience  had  taught  her  that  although 
love's  passionate  fever  takes  several  forms 
there  are  very  few  of  them  incurable.  Had 
she  not  passed  safely  through  the  ordeal  her- 
self, without  one  scar  to  bear  witness  of  the 
old  wounds  ? 

She  left  Captain  Bulstrode  staring  moodily 
out  of  the  window,  and  went  away  to  plan 
the  saving  of  this  poor  shipwrecked  soul. 

She  ran,  in  the  first  place,  to  tell  Mr.  John 
Mellish  of  her  discovery,  as  it  was  her  cus- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


67 


torn   to   carry  to  him  every  scrap  of  intelli- 
gence, great  and  small. 

"My  dearest  old  Jack,"  she  said  —  it  was 
another  of  her  customs  to  address  him  by 
every  species  of  exaggeratedly  endearing  ap- 
pellation ;  it  may  be  that  she  did  this  for  the 
quieting  of  her  own  conscience,  being  well 
aware  that  she  tyrannized  over  him  —  "  my 
darlina;  boy,  I  have  made  a  discovery." 

"  About  the  filly  ?" 

"  About  Talbot  Bulstrode." 

John's  blue  eyes  twinkled  maliciously.  He 
was  half  prepared  for  what  was  coming. 

"What  is  it,  Lolly?" 

Lolly  was  a  corruption  of  Aurora,  devised 
by  John  Mellish. 

"  Why,  I  'm  really  afraid,  my  precious  dar- 
ling, that  he  has  n't  quite  got  over — " 

"  My  taking  }-ou  awa}-  trom  him  !"  roared 
John.  "  I  thought  as  much.  Poor  devil — 
poor  Talbot!  I  could  see  that  he  would  have 
liked  to  fight  me  on  the  staqd  at  York.  Upon 
my  word,  I  pity  him !"  and,  in  token  of  his 
compassion,  Mr.  Mellish  burst  into  that  old 
joyous,  boisterous,  but  musical  laugh,  which 
Talbot  might  almost  have  heard  at  the  other 
end  of  the  house. 

This  was  a  favorite  delusion  of  John's.  He 
firmly  believed  that  he  had  won  Aurora's 
affection  in  fair  competition  with  Captain 
Bulstrode,  pleasantly  ignoring  that  the  cap- 
tair  had  resigned  all  pretensions  to  Miss 
Floyd's  hand  nine  or  ten  months  before  his 
own  offer  had  been  accepted. 

The  genial,  sanguine  ci-eature,  had  a  habit 
of  deceiving  himself  in  this  manner.  He  saw 
all  things  in  the  universe  just  as  he  wished  to 
see  them — all  men  and  women  good  and  hon- 
est; life  on(!  long,  piea*ant  voyage,  in  a  well- 
fitted  ship,  with  otdy  first-tdass  passengers  on 
boai'd.  He  was  one  of  tho.se  men  who  are 
likely  to  cut  their  throats  or  take  prussic  acid 
upon  the  day  they  first  encounter  the  black 
visage  of  Care. 

"  And  what  are  we  to  do  with  this  poor 
fellow,  Lolly?" 

"  Marry  him  I"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mellish. 

'*  Both  of  us?"  said  John,  simply. 

"  My  dearest  pet,  what  an  obtuse  old  dar- 
ling you  are  !  No;  marry  him  to  r.,u('y  Floyd, 
my  first  cousin  once  removed,  and  keep  the 
Bulstrode  estate  in  the  family." 

"  AL'irry  him  to  Lucy  !" 

"  Yes;  why  not?  She  has  studied  enough, 
and  learned  history,  and  geography,  and  as- 
tronomy, and  botany,  and  geology,  and  con- 
<hology,  and  entomohgy  enougii ;  and  she  has 
covered  1  don't  know  how  many  China  jars 
with  impossil)le  birds  and  flowers ;  and  sin: 
has  illuminated  missals,  and  read  High-Church 
novels;  so  the  next  best  thing  she  can  do  is 
to  marry  Talbot  Bulstrode." 

John  had  his  own  reasons  for  agreeing  with 
Aurora  in  this  matt«r.  He  remembered  that 
fecret  of  poor  Lucy's  whi<h  he  had  discovered 


more  than  a  year  before  at  Felden  Woods  — 
the  secret  which  had  been  revealed  to  him  In- 
some  mysterious  sympathetic  power  belonging 
to  hopeless  love.  So  Mr.  Mellish  declared  his 
hearty  concurrence  in  Aurora's  scheme,  and 
the  two  amateur  match-makers  set  to  work  to 
devise  a  complicated  man  -  trap,  in  the  which 
Talbot  was  to  be  entangled ;  never  for  a  mo- 
ment imagining  that,  while  they  were  racking 
their  brains  in  the  endeavor  to  bring  this  piece 
of  machinery  to  perfection,  the  intended  vic- 
tim was  quietly  strolling  across  the  sunlit  lawn 
toward  the  very  fate  they  desired  for  him. 

Yes,  Talbot  Bulstrode  lounged  with  languid 
step  to  meet  his  destiny  in  a  wood  upon  the 
borders  of  the  Park  —  a  part  of  the  Park,  in- 
deed, inasmuch  as  it  was  within  the  boundary 
fence  of  .lohn's  domain.     Tlie  wood-anemones 
trembled  in  the  spring  breezes  deep  in  those 
shadowy  arcades ;  pale  primroses  showed  their 
1  mild  faces  amid  their  sheltering  leaves ;  and 
I  in  shady  nooks,  beneath  low  spreading  boughs 
i  of  elm  and  beech,  oak  and  ash,  the  violets  hid 
their  purple  beauty  from  the  vulgar  eye.     A 
I  lovely  spot,  soothing  by  its  harmonious  infln- 
'  ence ;  a  very  forest  sanctuary,  without  whose 
I  dim  arcades  man  cast  his  burden  down,  to 
!  enter  in  a  child.     Captain  Bulstrode  had  felt 
j  in  no  very  pheasant  humor  as  he  walke<l  across 
the  lawn,  hut  some  softening  inlluence  stole 
I  upon   him   on   the   threshold   of   that  sylvan 
i  shelter  which  made   him  feel   a  better  man. 
He  began  to  question  himself  as  to  how  he 
was  plaving  his  part  in  the  great  drama  of 
life. 

I  "Good  Heavens!"  he  thought,  "what  a 
shameful  coward,  what  a  negative  wretch  1 
have  become  by  this  one  grief  of  my  manhood  ! 
An  indifferent  son,  a  careless  brother,  a  use- 
less, purposeless  creature,  content  to  dawdle 
away  my  life  in  feeble  pottering  with  political 
■  economy.  Shall  I  ever  be  in  earnest  again  ? 
Ls  this  dreary  doubt  of  every  living  creature 
to  go  with  me  to  my  grave  ?  Less  than  two 
years  ago  my  heart  sickenid  at  the  thought 
that  I  had  lived  to  two-and-thirty  years  of  age 
and  had  never  been  loved.  Since  then — since 
j  then  —  since  then  1  have  lived  through  life's 
brief  fever ;  I  have  fought  manhooil's  worst 
and  sharpest  battle,  and  find  myself — where  ? 
E.vactly  where  I  was  before — still  companion- 
less  upon  the  dreary  journey,  only  a  little 
nearer  to  the  end." 

He  walked  slowly  onward  into  the  woodland 
aisle,  other  aisles  bramhing  away  from  him 
right  and  left  into  deej)  glades  and  darkening 
slindow.  A  month  or  so  latiT.  and  the  mossy 
ground  beneath  his  feet  woultl  bi;  one  jiurple 
carpet  of  hyacinths,  the  very  air  thick  with  a 
fatal  scented  vapor  from  the  perfumed  bulb.-. 
"  I  a«ked  too  much,"  said  Talbot,  in  that 
voiceless  argument  wc  are  perpetually  carry- 
ing on  with  ourselves;  "  I  asketl  too  much — I 
yielded  to  the  spell  of  the  siren,  and  was  an- 
gry because  I  mis.scd  the  white  wings  of  the 


C8 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


angel.  I  was  bewltclied  by  the  fascinations  of 
a  beautiful  woman,  when  I  should  have  sought 
for  a  noble-minded  wife." 

He  went  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  wood, 
oroing  to  his  fate,  as  another  man  was  to  do 
before  the  eominir  summer  was  over ;  but  to 
what  a  ditTerent  fate!  The  Ion «;  arcades  of 
beech  and  elm  had  reminded  him  from  the 
fii-st  of  the  solemn  aisles  of  a  cathedral.  The 
saint  was  only  needed.  And,  coming  suddenly 
to  a  spot  where  a  new  arcade  branched  off 
abruptly  on  his  right  hand,  In;  saw.  in  one  of 
the  sylvan  niches,  as  fair  a  saint  as  had  ever 
been  modelled  by  the  hand  of  artist  and  be- 
liever— the  same  golden -haired  angel  he  had 
seen  in  the  long  drawing-room  at  Felden 
Woods  —  Lucy  Floyd,  with  the  jiale  aureola 
about  her  head,  her  large  straw  hat  in  her  lap, 
filled  with  anemones  and  violets,  and  the  third 
volume  of  a  nov«l  in  her  hand. 

How  much  in  life  often  hangs,  or  seems  to 
U3  to  hang,  upon  what  is  called  by  playwrights 
"  ft  situation  !"  But  for  this  sudden  encounter, 
but  for  coming  thus  upon  this  pretty  picture, 
Talbot  Bulstrode  might  have  dropped  into  his 
grave  ignorant  to  tiie  last  of  Lucy's  love  for 
him.  But,  given  a  sunshiny  April  morning 
(April's  fairest  bloom,  remember,  when  the 
capricious  nymph  is  mending  her  manners, 
aware  that  her  lovelier  sister  May  is  at  hand, 
and  anxious  to  make  a  good  impression  before 
she  drops  her  farewell  courtesy,  and  weeps 
her  last  brief  shower  of  farewell  tears) — 
given  a  balmy  spring  morning,  solitude,  a 
wood,  wild  flowers,  golden  hair,  and  blue  eyes, 
and  is  the  problem  difficult  to  solve  ? 

Talbot  Bulstrode,  leaning  against  the  broad 
trunk  of  a  beech,  looked  down  at  the  fair  face, 
which  crimsoned  under  his  eyes,  and  the  first 
glimmering  hint  of  Lucy's  secret  began  to 
da.wn  upon  him.  At  that  moment  he  had  no 
thought  of  profiting  b}-  the  discovery,  no 
tliought  of  what  he  was  afterward  led  on  to 
say.  His  mind  was  filled  with  the  storm  of 
emotion  that  had  burst  from  him  in  that  wild 
cry  to  Aurora.  Rage  and  jealousy,  regret, 
despair,  envy,  love,  and  hate  —  all  the  con- 
victing feelings  that  had  struggled  like  so 
many  demons  in  his  soul  at  sight  of  Aurora's 
happiness,  were  still  striving  for  mastery  in 
his  breast,  and  the  first  words  he  spoke  re- 
vealed the  thoughts  that  were  uppermost. 

"  Your  cousin  is  very  happy  in  her  new  life, 
Miss  Floyd  V"  he  said. 

Lucy  looked  up  at  him  with  surprise.  It 
Avas  the  first  time  he  had  spoken  to  her  of 
Aurora. 

'*  Yes,"  she  answered  cjuietly,  "  1  think  she 
i^  happy." 

Captain  Bulstrode  whisked  the  end  of  his 
cane  across  a  group  of  anemones,  and  decapi- 
tated the  tremulous  blossoms.  He  was  think- 
iuf>',  rather  savagely,  what  a  shame  it  was  that 
this  glorious  Aurora  could  be  happy  with  big, 
broad-shouldered,  jovial-tempered  John  Mel- 


lish.  He  could  not  understand  the  strange 
anomaly ;  he  could  not  discover  the  clew  to 
the  secret;  he  could  not  comprehend  that  the 
devoted  love  of  this  sturdy  Yorkshireman  was 
in  itself  strong  enough  to  conquer  all  difficul- 
ties, to  outweigh  all  differences. 

Little  by  little  he  and  Lucy  began  to  talk 
of  Aurora,  until  Miss  Floyd  told  her  compan- 
ion all  about  that  dreary  time  at  Felden 
Woods  during  which  the  life  of  the  heiress 
was  wellnigh  despaired  of.  So  she  had  loved 
him  truly,  then,  after  all ;  she  had  loved  and 
had  suffered,  and  had  lived  down  her  trouble, 
and  had  forgotten  him  and  was  happy.  The 
story  was  all  told  in  that  one  sentence.  He 
looked  blankly  back  at  the  irrecoverable  past, 
and  was  angry  with  the  pride  of  the  Bul- 
strodcs,  which  had  stood  between  himself  and 
his  happiness. 

He  told  sympathizing  Lucy  something  of 
his  sorrow  ;  told  her  that  misapprehension  — 
mistaken  pride — h^d  parted  him  from  Aurora. 
She  tried,  in  her  gentle,  innocent  fashion,  to 
comfort  the  strong  man  in  his  weakness,  and 
in  trying  revealed  —  ah !  how  simply  and 
transparently  —  the  old  secret,  which  had  so 
long  been  hidden  from  him. 

Heaven  help  the  man  whose  heart  is  caught 
at  the  rebound  by  a  fair-haired  divinity,  with 
dove-like  eyes,  and  a  low,  tremulous  voice, 
softly  attuned  to  his  grief.  Talbot  Bulstrode 
saw  that  he  was  beloved,  and  in  very  grati- 
tude made  a  dismal  offer  of  the  ashes  of  that 
fire  which  had  burnt  so  fiercely  at  Aurora's 
shrine.  Do  not  despise  this  poor  Lucy  if  she 
accepted  her  cousin's  forgotten  lover  with 
humble  thankfulness,  nay,  with  a  tumult  of 
wild  delight,  and  with  joyful  fear  and  trem- 
bling. She  loved  him  so  well,  and  had  loved 
him  so  long.  Forgive  and  pity  her,  for  she 
was  one  of  those  pure  and  innocent  creatures 
whose  whole  being  resolves  itself  into  affec- 
tion ;  to  whom  passion,  anger,  and  pride  are 
unknown;  who  live  only  to  love,  and  who 
love  until  death.  Talbot  Bulstrode, told  Lucy 
Floyd  that  he  had  loved  Aurora  with  the 
whole  strength  of  liis  soul,  but  that  now  the 
battle  was  over,  he,  the  stricken  warrior, 
needed  a  consoler  for  his  declining  days ; 
would  she,  could  she,  give  her  hand  to  one 
who  would  strive  to  the  uttermost  to  fulfil  a 
husband's  duty,  and  to  make  her  happy  V 
Happy  !  She  would  have  been  happy  if  he 
had  aske«l  her  to  be  his  slave  —  happy  if  she 
could  have  been  a  scullery-maid  at  Bulstrode 
Castle,  so  that  she  might  have  seen  the  dark 
face  she  loved  once  or  twice  a  day  through 
the  obscure  panes  of  some  kitchen-window. 

But  she  was  the  most  undemonstrative  of 
women,  and,  except  by  her  blushes,  and  her 
drooping  eyelids,  and  the  teardrop  trembling 
upon  the  soft  auburn  lashes,  she  made  no  re- 
ply to  the  captain's  appeal,  until  at  last,  tak- 
ing her  hand  in  his,  he  won  from  her  a  low 
consenting  murmur,  which  meant  Yes. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


69 


Good  Heavens!  how  hard  it  is  upon  such 
women  as  these  that  they  feol  so  much  and 
3'et  display  so  little  t'celinji:.  The  dark -eyed, 
impetuous  creatures,  who  speak  out  fearlessly, 
and  tell  you  that  they  love  or  hate  you,  Hincr- 
ing  their  arms  around  your  netk  or  throwing 
the  carving-knife  at  you,  as  the  ease  may  be, 
get  full  value  for  all  their  emotion  ;  but  these 
gentle  creatures  love,  and  make  no  sign. 
They  sit,  like  Patience  on  a  monument,  smil- 
ing at  grief,  and  no  one  reads  the  mournful 
meaning  of  that  sad  smile.  Concealment, 
like  the  worm  i'  the  bud,  feeds  on  their  damask 
cheeks,  and  compassionate  relatives  tell  them 
that  they  are  bilious,  and  recommend  Cockle's 
pills,  or  some  other  homely  remedy,  for  their 
pallid  complexions.  They  are  always  at  a 
disadvantage.  Their  inner  life  may  be  a 
tragedy,  all  blood  and  tears,  while  their  out- 
ward existence  is  some  dull  donieslic  drama 
of  cvery-daj'  life.  The  only  outward  sign 
Lucy  Floyd  gave  of  the  condition  of  her 
h«'art  was  that  one  tremulous,  half-whispered 
affirmative,  and  yet  Avhat  a  tempest  of  emo- 
tion was  going  forward  within  !  The  muslin 
folds  of  her  dress  rose  and  fell  with  the  surg- 
ing billows,  but  for  the  very  life  of  her  she 
could  have  uttered  no  better  response  to 
Talbot's  pleading. 

It  was  only  by  and  by.  after  she  and  Cap- 
tain Rulstrode  had  wandered  slowly  back  to 
the  house,  that  her  emotion  betrayed  itself 
Aurora  met  her  cousin  in  the  corridor  out  of 
which  their  rooms  opened,  and,  drawing  Luc}' 
into  her  own  dressing-room,  a.sked  the  truant 
where  she  hail  been. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  you  runaway  girl  ? 
John  and  I  have  wanted  you  half  a  dozen 
times." 

Miss  Lucy  Floyd  explained  that  she  had 
been  in  the  wood  with  tlic  last  new  novel — a 
ITigh-Church  novel,  in  which  the  heroine  re- 
jected the  clerical  hero  because  he  did  not 
perform  the  service  according  to  the  Rtibric. 
Now,  Miss  Lucy  Floyd  made  this  confession 
with  so  much  confusion  and  so  many  blushes 
that  it.  would  have  appeared  as  if  there  were 
some  lurking  criminality  in  the  fact  of  spend- 
ing an  April  morning  in  a  wood  ;  and,  neing 
farther  examined  as  to  why  she  had  staid  .^o 
long,  and  whether  she  had  been  alone  all  the 
time,  poor  Lucy  fell  into  a  pitiful  state  of  em- 
barrassment, saying  that  she  had  been  alone, 
that  is  to  say,  part  of  the  time,  or  at  least  most 
of  the  time.  V»ut  that  Captain  Rulstrode — " 

Rut,  in  trying  to  pronounce  his  name — this 
beloved,  this  sa<red  name  —  lyucy  Floyil's  ut- 
terance failfd  her:  she  fairly  broke  down.  an<l 
burst  into  te,irs. 

Aurora  laid  her  cousin's  fa^-e  upon  her 
breast,  and  looked  down  with  a  womanly, 
matronly  glance  into  those  tearfid  bine  eyes. 
"  I^ucy,  my  darlinu,"  she  said,  "is  it  really 
and  truly  as  I  think — as  1  wish — Talbot  loves 
vou  ?" 


"  He  has  asked  me  to  marry  him,"  Lucy 
whispered. 

"And  you  —  you  have  consented — you  love 
him  ?" 

Lucy  Floyd  only  answered  by  a  new  burst 
of  tears. 

"  Why,  my  darling,  how  this  surprises  me  ! 
How  long  has  it  b(!en  so,  Lucy  V  How  lotig 
have  you  loved  him  ?  ' 

"  From  the  hour  1  first  saw  him,"  murmured 
Lucy  ;  "  from  the  day  he  first  came  to  Felden. 
Oh,  Aurora!  1  know  how  foolish  and  weak  it 
was;  I  hate  myself  for  the  folly;  but  he  is  so 
good,  so  noble,  so — " 

"  My  silly  darling  ;  and  because  he  is  gowl 
and  noble,  and  a^ked  you  to  be  his  wife,  you 
shed  as  many  tears  as  if  you  had  been  asked 
to  go  to  his  funeral.  My  loving,  tender  Luc). 
you  loved  him  all  the  time  then;  and  you 
were  so  gentle  and  good  to  me  —  to  me,  who 
was  selfish  enough  never  to  guess!  My  dear- 
est, you  are  a  hundred  times  better  suited  to 
him  than  ever  I  was.  and  you  will  be  as  happy 
—  as  happy  as  I  am  with  that  ri<lieulou3  old 
.John." 

Aurora's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  spoke. 

She  was  truly  and  siiu-erely  glad  that  Tal- 
bot was  in  a  fair  way  to  find  consolation,  .still 
more  glad  that  her  sentimental  cousin  waa  to 
be  made  happy. 

Talbot  Rulstrode  lingered  on  a  few  days  at 
Mellish  Park  —  happy,  ah!  too  happy  days 
for  Lucy  Floyd  —  and  then  departed,  after 
receiving  the  congratulations  of  John  and 
Aurora. 

He  was  to  go  straight  to  Alexander  Floyd'p 
villa  at  Fulham,  and  plead  his  cause  with 
Lucy's  father.  There  was  little  fear  of  his 
meeting  other  than  a  favorable  reception,  for 
Talbot  Rulstrodi^,  of  Rulstrode  (."astle,  was  a 
very  great  match  for  a  daughter  of  the  junior 
branch  of  Floyd,  Floyd,  and  Floyd,  a  young 
lady  whose  expectations  were  considerably 
qualified  by  half  a  dozen  brothers  and  sisters. 

So  Captain  Rulstrode  went  back  to  London 
as  the  betrothed  lover  of  T.,ucy  Floyd  —  went 
back  with  a  subdued  gladness  in  his  heart  all 
unlike  the  stormy  joys  of  the  past.  He  was 
hapj)y  in  the  choice  he  had  made,  calmly  ai»fl 
dispassionately.  He  had  loved  Aurora  for 
her  beauty  and  her  fascination  ;  he  was  going 
to  marry  Lucy  becatisc  he  had  seen  mmli  oi 
her,  had  observed  her  closely,  and  bclievt'd 
her  to  be  all  that  a  woman  shotdd  be.  Per- 
haps, if  stern  truth  must  be  told.  Lucy's  ehiiT 
charm  in  the  ciptain's  eyes  lay  in  that  rever- 
ence for  himself  which  she  .so  naively  betray- 
ed. He  accepted  her  worship  with  a  <|uict. 
unconscious  serenity,  and  thought  her  the 
most  sensible  of  women. 

Mrs.  Alexander  was  utterly  bewildered 
when  Aurora's  sometime  lover  ph,ad''<l  for 
her  (laughter's  hand.  She  was  too  bu«y  .-» 
niothi-r  among  her  little  flock  to  be  the  most 
penetrating;  of  observers,  and  «he  had   never 


70 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


sugpectcd  the  state  of  Lucy's  heart.  She  was 
oflad,  therefore,  to  find  that  her  daughter  did 
justice  to  her  excellent  education,  and  had  too 
much  good  sense  to  refuse  so  advantageous  an 
offer  as  that  of  Captain  Bulstrode  ;  and  she 
joined  with  her  husband  in  perfect  approval 
of  Talbot's  suit.  So,  there  being  no  let  or 
hinderance,  and  as  the  lovers  had  long  known 
and  e.?teenied  each  other,  it  was  decided,  at 
the  cai)tain's  request,  that  the  wedding  should 
take  place  early  in  June,  and  that  the  honey- 
moon should  be  spent  at  Bulstrode  Castle. 
At  the  end  of  May  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish 
went  to  Felden  on  purpose  to  attend  Lucy's 
wedding,  which  took  place  with  great  style 
at  Fulham,  Archibald  Floyd  presenting  his 
grand-niece  with  a  clieck  for  five  thousand 
pounds  after  the  return  from  church. 

Once  during  that  marriage  ceremony  Tal- 
bot Bulstrode  was  nigh  rubbing  his  eyes, 
thinking  that  the  pageant  must  be  a  dream. 
A  dream  surely :  for  here  was  a  pale,  fair- 
haired  girl  by  his  side,  while  the  woman  he 
had  chosen  two  years  before  stood  amid  a 
group  behind  him,  and  looked  on  at  the  cere- 
mony a  pleased  spectator.  But  when  he  felt 
the  little  gloved  hand  trembling  upon  his  arm 
as  the  bride  and  bridegroom  left  the  altar  he 
remembered  that  it  was  no  dream,  and  that 
life  held  ncAv  and  solemn  duties  for  him  from 
that  hour. 

Now,  my  two  heroines  being  married,  the 
reader  versed  in  the  physiology  of  novel-writ- 
ing may  conclude  that  my  story  is  done,  that 
the  green  curtaiin  is  ready  to  fall  upon  the 
last  act  of  the  play,  and  that  I  have  nothing 
more  to  do  than  to  entreat  indulgence  for  the 
shortcomings  of  the  performance  and  the  per- 
formers. Yet,  after  all,  does  the  business  of 
the  real  life-drama  always  end  upon  the  altar- 
steps  y  Must  the  play  needs  be  over  when 
the  hero  and  heroine  have  signed  their  names 
in  the  register?  Does  man  cease  to  be,  to  do, 
and  to  suffer  when  he  gets  married  V  And 
is  it  necessary  that  the  novelist,  after  devoting 
three  volumes  to  the  description  of  a  court- 
.ship  of  six  weeks  duration,  should  reserve  for 
himself  only  half  a  page  in  which  to  tell  us 
the  events  of  two-thirds  of  a  lifetime  ?  Au- 
rora is  married,  and  settled,  and  happy;  shel- 
tered, as  one  would  imagine,  from  all  dangers, 
safe  under  the  wing  of  her  stalwart  adorer; 
but  it  does  not  therefore  follow  that  the  story 
of  her  life  is  done.  She  has  escaped  ship- 
wreck for  a  while,  and  has  safely  landed  on  a 
pleasant  shore  ;  but  the  storm  may  still  lower 
darkly  upon  the  horizon,  while  the  hoarse 
thunder  grumbles  threateningly  in  the  dis- 
tance. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

MR.    pastern's    LETTKR.  j' 

Mr.  John  Mellish  reserved  to  himself  oae 
room  upon  the  ground-floor  of  his  house,  a 
cheerful,  airy  apartment,  with  French  win- 
dows opening  upon  the  lawn  —  windows  that 
were  sheltered  from  the  sun  by  a  veranda, 
overhung  with  jessamine  and  rosea.  It  was 
altogether  a  pleasant  room  for  the  summer 
season,  the  floor  being  covered  with  an  Lidia 
matting  instead  of  a  carpet,  and  many  of  the 
chairs  being  made  of  light  basket-work.  Over 
the  chimney-piece  hung  a  portrait  of  John's 
father,  and  opposite  to  this  work  of  art  there 
was  the  likeness  of  the  deceased  gentleman's 
favorite  hunter,  surmounted  by  a  pair  of 
brightly-polishe<l  spurs,  the  glistening  rowels 
of  which  had  often  pierced  the  sides  of  that 
faithful  steed.  In  this  chamber  Mr.  Mellish 
kept  his  whips,  canes,  foils,  single-sticks,  box- 
ing-gloves, spurs,  guns,  pistols,  powder  and 
shot  flasks,  fishing-tackle,  boots  and  tops,  and 
many  happy  mornings  were  spent  by  the 
master  of  Mellish  Park  in  the  pleasing  occu- 
pation of  polishing,  repairing,  inspecting,  and 
otherwise  setting  in  order  these  possessions. 
He  had  as  many  pairs  of  hunting -boots  as 
would  have  supplied  half  Leicestershire,  with 
tops  to  match.  He  had  whips  enough  for 
half  the  Melton  Hunt.  Surrounded  by  these 
treasures,  as  it  were  in  a  temple  sacred  to  the 
deities  of  the  race-course  and  the  hunting- 
field,  Mr.  John  Mellish  used  to  hold  solemn 
audiences  with  his  trainer  and  his  head  groom 
upon  the  business  of  the  stable. 

It  was  Aurora's  custom  to  peep  into  this 
chamber  perpetually,  very  much  to  the  de- 
light and  distraction  of  her  adoring  husband, 
who  found  the  black  eyes  of  his  divinity  a 
terrible  hinderance  to  business,  except,  in- 
deed, when  he  could  induce  Mrs.  Mellish  to 
join  in  the  discussion  upon  hand,  and  lend 
the  assistance  of  her  powerful  intellect  to  the 
little  conclave.  I  believe  that  John  thought 
she  could  have  handicapped  the  horses  for  the 
Chester  Cup  as  well  as  Mr.  Topham  himself. 
She  was  such  a  brilliant  creature  that  every 
little  smattering  of  knowledge  she  possessed 
appeared  to  such  good  account  as  to  make  her 
seem  an  adept  in  any  subject  of  which  she 
spoke,  and  the  simple  Yorkshireman  believed 
in  her  as  the  wisest,  as  well  as  the  noblest 
and  fairest  of  women. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish  returned  to  Yorkshire 
immediately  after  Lucy's  wedding.  Poor 
John  was  uneasy  about  his  stables :  for  his 
trainer  was  a  victim  to  chronic  rheumatism, 
and  ]\Ir.  Pastern  had  not  as  yet  made  any 
communication  respecting  the  )"0ung  man  of 
whom  he  had  spoken  on  the  stand  at  York. 

"  I  shall  keep  Langley,"  John  said  to  Au- 
rora, speaking  of  his  old  trainer ;  "  for  he  's 
an  honest  fellow,  and  his  judgment  will  al- 
ways be  of  use  to  me.     He  and  his  wife  can 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


71 


still  occupy  the  rooms  over  the  stables,  and 
the  new  man,  whoever  he  may  be,  can  live  in 
the  lodge  on  the  north  side  of  the  Park.  No- 
body ever  goes  in  at  that  gate,  so  the  lodge- 
keeper's  post  is  a  sinecure,  and  the  cottage 
has  been  shut  up  for  the  last  year  or  two.  I 
wish  John  Pastern  would  write." 

"And  I  wish  whatever  you  wish,  my  dear- 
est life,"  Aurora  said,  dutifully,  to  her  happy 
slave. 

Very  little  had  been  seen  of  Steeve  Har- 
graves,  the  softy,  since  the  day  upon  which 
John  Mellish  had  turned  him  neck  and  crop 
out  of  his  service.  One  of  the  grooms  had 
seen  him  in  a  little  village  close  to  the  Park, 
and  Stef)hen  had  informed  the  man  that  he 
was  getting  his  living  by  doing  odd  jobs  for 
the  doctor  of  the  jjarish,  and  looking  after 
that  gentleman's  horse  and  gig;  but  the  softy 
had  seemed  inclined  to  be  sulky,  and  had  said 
very  little  about  himself  or  his  sentiments. 
He  made  very  particular  intjuiries,  though, 
about  Mrs.  Mellish,  and  asked  so  many  ques- 
tions as  to  what  Aurora  did  and  said,  where 
she  went,  whom  she  saw,  and  how  she  agreed 
with  her  husband,  that  at  last  the  groom,  al- 
though only  a  simple  country  lad,  refused  to 
answer  any  more  interrogatories  about  his 
mistress. 

Steeve  Ilargraves  rubbeil  his  coarse,  sinewy 
hands,  and  chuckled  as  he  spoke  of  Aurora. 

"  She  's  a  rare  proud  one — a  regular  high- 
spirited  lafly,"  he  said,  in  that  whispering 
voice  that  always  sounded  strange.  "  She 
laid  in  on  me  with  that  riding-whip  of  hers ; 
but  I  bear  no  malice  —  I  bear  no  malice. 
She  's  a  beautiful  creature,  and  I  wish  Mr. 
Mellish  joy  of  his  bargain." 

The  groom  scanely  knew  how  to  take  this, 
not  being  fully  aware  whether  it  was  intended 
as  a  compliment  or  an  impertinence.  So  he 
noikled  to  the  softy  and  strode  off,  leaving 
him  still  rubbing  his  hands  and  whispering 
about  Aurora  Mellish,  who  had  long  ago  for- 
gotten her  encounter  with  Mr.  Stephen  Har- 
graves. 

How  was  it  likely  that  she  should  remem- 
ber him  or  take  heed  of  him  ?  How  was  it 
liktly  that  she  should  take  alai'm  beeause  the 
pale-faced  widow,  Mrs.  Walter  Powell,  sat  by 
her  hearth  and  hated  her?  Strong  in  her 
youtli  and  beauty,  rich  in  her  happiness,  shel- 
tcri;(l  and  defended  by  her  husbajul's  iovf,  how 
should  slu!  tliink  of  danger?  How  should  she 
dread  misfortune  ?  She  thankeil  God  every 
day  tliat  the  troubles  of  her  youth  were  past, 
and  tliat  her  path  in  life  led  henceforth 
through  smooth  and  pleasant  places,  where 
no  perils  could  come. 

Lucy  was  at  Bulstrode  Castle,  winning  up- 
on the  affections  of  her  husband's  mother,  who 
patronized  hi-r  daughter-in-law  with  lofty 
kindness,  ami  took  the  blushing,  timorous 
creature  under  her  sheltering  wmg.  Lady 
Bulstrode   was  very  well  satisfied   with    lur 


son's  choice.  He  might  have  done  better, 
certainly,  as  to  position  and  fortune,  the  lady 
hinted  to  Talbot ;  and,  in  her  maternal  anxi- 
ety, she  would  have  preferred  his  marrying  any 
one  rather  than  the  cousin  of  that  ^liss  Floyd, 
who  ran  away  from  school  and  caused  such  a 
scandal  at  the  Parisian  seminary.  But  Lady 
Bulstrode's  heart  warmed  to  Lucy,  who  wa.'i 
so  ccntle  and  humble,  and  who  always  spok? 
of  Talbot  as  if  he  had  been  a  being  far  "  too 
bright  and  good,"  etc.,  much  to  the  gratifica- 
tion of  her  ladyship's  maternal  vanity. 

"  She  has  a  very  proper  affection  for  you, 
Talbot,"  Lady  Bulstrode  said,  "  and.  for  so 
young  a  creature,  promises  to  make  an  excel- 
lent wife  ;  far  better  suited  to  you,  I  'm  sure, 
than  her  cousin  could  ever  have  been." 

Talbot   turned    fiercely   upon    his  mother, 
very  nuich  to  tht>  lady's  surprise. 
I      "Why  will  you  be  for  ever  bringing  Auro- 
ra's  name    into   the   question,   mother  ?"    he 
j  cried.     "  Why  can  not  you  let  her  memory 
I  rest  ?     You  parted  us  for  ever — you  and  Con- 
1  stance — and  is  not  that  enough?     She  is  mar- 
ried, and  she   and  her  husband  are  a  very 
happy  couple.     A  man   might  have  a  worse 
wife  than  Mrs.  Mellish,  I  can  tell  you;    and 
John   seems  to  appreciate  her  value  in  his 
rough  way." 

"  You  need  not  be  so  violent,  Talbot,"  Lady 
I  Bulstrode  said  with  offended  dignity.  "  I  am 
v(;ry  glad  to  hear  that  Miss  Floyd  has  altered 
since  her  school-days,  and  I  hope  that  she 
may  continue  to  be  a  good  wife,"  she  added, 
with  an  emphasis  which  expressed  that  she 
had  no  very  great  hopes  of  the  continuance 
of  Mr.  Mellish's  happiness. 

"  My  poor  mother  is  offended  with  me," 
Talbot  thought,  as  Lady  Bulstrode  swept  out 
of  the  room.  "  I  know  I  am  an  abominable 
bear,  and  that  nobody  will  ever  truly  love  me 
so  long  as  I  live.  My  poor  little  Lucy  loves 
me  after  her  fashion  —  loves  me  in  fear  and 
trembling,  as  if  she  and  I  belonged  to  differ- 
ent orders  of  beings — very  much  as  the  flying 
woman  must  have  loved  my  countryman, 
Peter  Wilkins,  I  think.  But,  after  all,  per- 
haps my  mother  is  right,  and  my  gentle  little 
wife  is  better  suited  to  me  than  Aurora  woul(i 
have  been." 

So  we  dismiss  Talbot  Bulstrode  for  a  while, 
moderately  happy,  and  yet  not  quite  satisfied. 
What  mortal  ever  was  quite  satisfied  in  this 
world  ?  It  is  a  part  of  our  earthly  nature 
always  to  find  something  wanting,  always  to 
have  a  vague,  dull,  ignorant  yearning  which 
can  not  be  appeased.  Sometimes,  indeed,  we 
are  happy  ;  but  in  our  wildest  happiness  wc 
are  still  unsatisfied,  for  it  seems  then  ain  if 
the  cup  of  joy  were  too  full,  and  we  grow 
cold  with  terror  at  the  thought  that,  even  bo- 
cause  of  \ts  fulness,  it  may  po.ssibly  be  dashed 
to  the  ground.  What  a  mistake  this  lift 
would  be,  what  a  wild,  feverish  dream,  what 
an  unfinished  and  imperfect  story,  if  it  were- 


72 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


not  a  prelude  to  something  better !  Taken 
by  itself,  it  is  all  trouble  and  eonfusion ;  but, 
taking  the  futui-e  as  the  key-note  of  the  pres- 
ent, how  wondrously  harmonious  the  whole 
bticonies  !  How  little  does  it  signify  that  our 
hearts  are  not  complete,  our  wishes  not  fulfil- 
led, if  the  eompleliou  and  the  fulfilment  are 
to  come  hereafter ! 

Little  more  tiian  a  week  after  Luey's  wed- 
ding Aurora  ordered  her  horse  innncdiately 
after  breakfast,  upon  a  sunny  summer  morn- 
ing, and,  atcompauied  by  the  old  groom  who 
had  ridden  behind  John's  father,  went  out  on 
an  excursion  among  the  villages  round  Mel- 
lish  Park,  as  it  was  her  habit  to  do  once  or 
twice  a  week. 

The  poor  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  York- 
shire mansion  had  good  reason  to  bless  the  com- 
ing of  the  banker's  daughter.  Aurora  loved 
nothing  better  than  to  ride  from  cottage  to 
cottage,  chatting  with  the  simple  villagers, 
and  finding  out  their  Avants.  She  never 
found  the  worthy  creatures  vtry  remiss  in 
stating  their  necessities,  and  the  housekeeper 
at  Mellish  Park  had  enough  to  do  in  distrib- 
uting Aurora's  bounties  among  the  cottagers 
who  came  to  the  servants'  hall  with  pencil 
orders  from  Mrs.  Mellish.  Mrs.  Walter  Powell 
sometimes  ventured  to  take  Aurora  to  task  on 
the  folly  and  sinfulness  of  what  she  called 
indiscriminate  almsgiving ;  but  Mrs.  Mellish 
would  pour  such  a  flood  of  eloquence  upon 
her  antagonist  that  the  ensign's  widow  was 
always  glad  to  retire  from  the  unequal  eon- 
test.  Nobody  had  ever  been  able  to  argue 
with  Archibald  Floyd's  daughter.  Impulsive 
and  impetuous,  she  had  always  taken  her  own 
course,  whether  for  weal  or  woe,  and  nobody 
had  been  strong  enough  to  hinder  her. 

Returning  on  this  lovely  June  morning 
from  one  of  these  charitable  expeditions,  Mrs. 
Mellish  dismounted  from  her  horse  at  a  little 
turnstile  leading  into  the  wood,  and  ordered 
the  groom  to  take  the  animal  home. 

"I  have  a  fancy  for  walking  through  the 
wood,  Joseph,"  she  said,  "  it  's  such  a  lovely 
morning.  Take  care  of  Mazeppa ;  and  if 
you  see  Mr.  Mellish,  tell  him  that  I  shall  be 
home  directly."' 

The  man  touched  his  hat,  and  rode  off, 
leading  Aurora's  horse. 

Mrs.  Mellish  gathered  up  the  folds  of  her 
h.abit  and  strolled  slowly  into  the  wood  under 
whose  shadow  Tal'oot  Bulstrode  and  Lucy 
had  wandered  on  that  eventful  April  day 
which  sealed  the  young  lady's  fate. 

Now,  Aurora  Iiatl  chosen  to  ramble  home- 
ward through  this  Avood  because,  being  thor- 
oughly ha))py,  the  warm  gladness  of  the 
summer  weather  filled  her  with  a  sense  of 
delight  which  she  was  loath  to  curtail.  The 
drowsy  hum  of  the  insects,  the  rich  coloring 
of  the  woods,  the  scent  of  wild  flowers,  the 
ripple  of  water,  all  blended  into  one  delicious 
wJiole,  and  made  the  earth  lovely. 


There  is  something  satisfactory,  too,  in  the 
sense  of  possession ;  and  Aurora  felt,  as  sho- 
looked  down  tlie  long  avenue-!,  and  aT^-ay 
through  distant  loop-holes  in  the  wood  to  the 
wide  expanse  of  park  and  lawn,  and  the 
picturesque  irregular  pile  of  building  beyond, 
half  Gothic,  half  Elizabethan,  and  so  lost  in 
a  rich  tangle  of  ivy  and  bright  foliage  as  to 
be  beautiful  at  every  point  —  she  felt,  I  say, 
that  all  the  fair  picture  was  her  own,  or  her 
husband's,  which  was  the  same  thing.  She 
had  never  for  one  moment  regretted  her  mar- 
riage with  John  Mellish.  She  had  never,  as 
I  have  said  already,  been  inconstant  to  him 
by  one  thought. 

In  one  part  of  the  wood  the  ground  rose 
considerably,  so  that  the  house,  which  lay 
low,  was  distinctly  visible  whenever  there 
was  a  break  in  the  trees.  The  I'ising  ground 
was  considered  the  prettiest  spot  in  the  wood, 
and  here  a  summer-house  had  been  erected — 
a  fragile  wooden  building,  which  had  fallen 
into  decay  of  late  years,  but  which  was  still  a 
pleasant  resting-place  upon  a  summer's  day, 
being  furnished  with  a  wooden  table  and  a 
broad  bench,  and  sheltered  fiom  the  sun  and 
wind  by  the  lower  branches  of  a  magnificent 
beech.  A  ^ew  paces  away  from  this  summer- 
house  there  was  a  pool  of  water,  the  surface 
of  which  was  so  covered  with  lilies  and  tangled 
weeds  as  to  have  beguiled  a  short-sighted 
traveller  into  forgetfulness  of  the  danger  be- 
neath. Aurora's  way  led  her  past  this  spot, 
and  she  started  with  a  momentary  sensation 
of  terror  on  seeing  a  man  lying  asleep  by 
the  side  of  the  pool.  She  quickly  recovered 
herself,  remembering  that  John  allowed  the 
public  to  use  the  footpath  through  the  wood ; 
but  she  started  again  when  the  man,  who 
must  have  been  a  bad  sleeper,  to  be  aroused 
by  her  light  footstep,  lifted  his  head  and  dis- 
played the  white  face  of  the  soity. 

He  rose  slowly  from  the  ground  upon  seeing 
Mrs.  Mellish,  and  crawled  away,  looking  at 
her  as  he  went,  but  not  making  any  acknowl- 
edgment of  her  presence. 

Aurora  could  not  repress  a  brief  terrified 
shudder ;  it  seemed  as  if  her  footfall  had 
startled  some  viperish  creature,  some  loath- 
some member  of  the  reptile  race,  and  scared 
it  from  its  lurking-place. 

Steeve  Hargraves  disappeared  among  the 
trees  as  Mrs.  Mellish  walked  on,  her  head 
proudly  erect,  but  her  cheek  a  shade  paler 
than  before  this  unexpected  encounter  with 
the  softy. 

Pier  joyous  gladness  in  the  bright  summer's 
day  had  forsaken  her  as  suddenly  as  she  had 
met  Stephen  Hargraves;  that  bright  smile, 
which  was  even  brighter  than  the  morning 
sunshine,  faded  out,  and  left  her  face  unnatu- 
rally grave. 

"  Good  Heavens !"  she  exclaimed,  "  how 
foolish  I  am !  I  am  actually  afraid  of  that 
man — afraid  of  that  pitiful  coward  who  could 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


hurt  my  feiiblo  old  dog.     As  if  such  a  creature 
as  that  could  do  one  any  mischief!" 

Of  course  this  was  very  wisely  arjrucd,  as 
no  coward  ever  by  any  chance  worked  any 
mischief  upon  this  earth,  since  the  Saxon 
prince  was  stabbed  in  the  back  while  drink- 
ing nt  his  kinswoman's  gate,  or  since  brave 
King  John  and  his  creature  plotted  together 
what  they  should  do  Avith  the  little  boy  Ar- 
thur. 

Aurora  walked  slowly  across  the  lawn  tow- 
ard that  end  of  the  house  at  which  the 
apartment  sacred  to  Mr.  Mellish  was  situated. 
She  entered  Foftly  at  the  open  window,  and 
laid  her  hand  upon  John's  shoulder  as  he  sat 
at  a  table  covered  with  a  litter  of  account- 
books,  racing-lists,  and  disorderly  papers. 

lie  started  at  the  touch  of  the  familiar 
hand. 

"  My  darling,  I  'm  so  glad  you  "ve  come  in. 
IIow  long  you  've  been  !" 

She  looked  at  her  little  jewelled  watch. 
Poor  Jolin  h.id  loaddl  her  with  trinkets  and 
gewgaws.  His  chief  gi'ief  was  that  she  was  a 
wealthy  Iieiress,  and  that  he  could  give  her 
nothing  but  the  adoration  of  his  simple,  honest 
heart. 

"  Only  half-past  one,  you  silly  old  John," 
she  said.     "  What  made  you  think  me  late  ? 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  consult  you  aliout 
something,  and  to  tell  you  something.  Such 
good  news !" 

"  About  what  ?" 

'•  About  the  trainer." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  piu'sed  up 
her  red  lips  with  a  bewitching  little  gesture  of 
indifference. 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes ;  but  a'n't  you  glad  we  've  got  the 
man  at  last — the  very  man  to  suit  us,  1  think? 
Where  's  John  Pastern's  letter?" 

Mr.  Mellish  searched  among  the  litter  of 
])ftpers  upon  the  table,  while  Aurora,  leaning 
against  tiie  frame-work  of  the  open  window, 
watched  him,  and  laughed  at  his  embarrass- 
ment. 

She  had  recovered  her  spirits,  and  looked 
the  very  picture  of  careless  gladness  as  she 
lean*!d  in  one  of  tho.se  graceful  and  unstudied 
attitudes  peculiar  to  her,  su])porte(l  by  the 
frame -work  of  the  window,  and  with  the 
trailing  jessamine  waving  lound  her  in  the 
soft  sununcr  breeze.  Slie  litVed  her  ungloved 
hand  and  gathered  the  roses  above  her  head 
as  she  talked  to  her  husband. 

'•  You  most  disorderly  and  unmethodi(;  of 
men,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  I  would  n't  mind 
betting  you  won't  find  it." 

T  'ni  aftaid  that  Mr.  Mellish  muttered  an 
oath  as  he  tossed  about  the  hcterogen«'ous 
ma.ss  of  papers  in  his  search  for  the  missing 
document. 

"  I  had  it  five  minute.''  before  you  came  in, 
Aurora,"  he  said.  "  and  now  there  's  not  a 
sign  of  it — oh,  here  it  is  I" 


Mr.  Mellish  unfolded  the  letter,  and,  smooth- 
ing it  out  upon  the  table  before  him,  cleared 
his  throat  ])reparatory  to  reading  the  e])Istle. 
Aurora  still  leaiu'd  against  the  window-frame, 
half  in  and  half  out  of  the  room,  singing  a 
snatch  of  a  popular  song,  and  trying  to  gather 
an  obstinate  half-blown  rose  which  grew  pro- 
voklnnly  out  of  reach. 

"  You  Ve  attending,  Aurora?" 
"  Yes,  dearest  and  best." 
"  But  do  come  in.     You  can't  hear  a  word 
there." 

j  Mrs.  Mellish  shrugged  her  shoulders,  tis  who 
should   say,  "I  submit  to  the  command  of  a 

j  tyiant,"  and  advanced  a  couple  of  paces  from 
the  window;  then,  looking  at  John  with  an 
enchantingly  insolent   toss  of  her  head,    she 

I  folded  her  hands  behind  iier,  and  told  him  she 
would  "  be  good."     She  was  a  careless,  impet- 

j  uous  creature,  dreadfully  forget  ful  of  what 
^Irs.  Walf(u-  Powell  called  her  "  re.sponsibili- 

!  ties  ;"  every  mortal  thing  by  turns,  and  never 

[any  one  thing  for  two  minutes  together;  hap- 
l\y,   generous,   airectionate  ;  taking  life   as   a 

I  glorious  sunuuer's  holiday,  and  thanking  GckI 

I  for  the  bounty  which  made  it  so  pleasant  to 

j  her. 

Mr.  John  Pastern  began  his  letter  with  an 
apology  for  having  so  long  deferred  writing. 

'  He  had  lost  the  address  of"  the  ])erson  he  had 

i  wished  to  recommend,  and  had  waited  until 

;  the  man  wrote  to  him. 

i      "  I  think   he   will  suit  you  very  well,"  the 

]  letter  went  on  to  say,  "  as  he  is  well  up  in  his 

j  business,  having  had  plenty  of  experience  as 
groom,  jockey,  and  trainer.     He  is  only  thirty 

j  years  of  age,  but  met  with  an  accident  some 

!  time  since,  which  lamed  him  for  life.  lie  was 
half  killed  in  a  steeple  -  chase  in  Prussia,  and 

!  was   for   upward  of  a  year  in   a  hospital  at 

!  Berlin.     His  name  is  James  Conycrs,  and  he 

I  can  have  a  character  from — " 

I      The   letter  dropped  out  of  John  Mellish's 

j  hand  as  he  looked  up  at  Iiis  wife.     It  was  not 

!  a  scream  which  she  had   uttered.     It  was  a 

j  gasping  cry,  more  terrible  to  hear  than  the 

I  shrillest  scream  that  ever  came  from  the  throat 
of  woman  in  all  the  long  history  of  womanly 

I  distress. 

I      "  Aurora  !  Aurora  I" 

He  looked  at  iier,  and  his  own  face  changed 
and  whitened  at  tlu;  sight  of  hers.  So  ter- 
rible a  transformation  had  come  over  her 
<hn-ing  the   reading  of    that   letter  that  the 

;  shock  could  .scarcely  have  been  greater  had 
he  looked  up  and  seen  another  person  in  her 

[  [ilaee. 

"  It   's    wrong !    it   's    wrong  !*'   she   cried, 

I  hoarsely;  "you  'vo  read  the  wrong  name.    It 

'  can't  b."-  that  !" 

!      "  What  name  ?" 

"  What  name  ?"  .she  echoed  fiercely,  her 
fucH   flaming   up    with    a   wihl  fury  —  "that 

I  name  I     I  tell  you  it  can't  be.     Give  me  the 

1  letter." 


74 


AUllOI^A  FLOYD. 


He  obeyed  her  inechanically,  picking  up 
the  paper  and  handing  it  to  her,  but  never  re- 
moving his  eves  from  her  face. 

She^ snatched  it  from  him;  looked  at  it  for 
a  few  moments  with  Iier  eyes  dilated  and  her 
lips  apart ;  tlien,  reeling  back  two  or  three 
paces,  her  knees  bent  under  her,  and  she  fell 
heavilv  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

M  U  .     .1  A  M  i:  S     C  O  X  Y  E  R  S . 

The  first  week  in  July  brought  James  Con- 
yers,  tlie  new  trainer,  to  Mellish  Park.  John 
had  made  no  particular  inquiries  as  to  the 
man's  character  of  any  of  his  former  employ- 
ers, as  a  worc^from  Mr.  Pastern  was  all-sufii- 
eient. 

Mr.  Mellish  had  endeavored  to  discover  the 
cause  of  Aurora's  agitation  at  the  reading  of 
Mr.  Pastern's  letter.  She  had  fallen  like  a 
dead  creature  at  his  feet ;  she  had  been  hys- 
terical throughout  the  remainder  of  the  day, 
and  delirious  in  the  ensuing  night,  but  she 
had  not  uttered  one  word  calculated  to  throw 
any  light  upon  the  secret  of  her  strange  mani- 
i'estation  of  emotion. 

Her  husband  sat  by  her  bedside  upon  the 
day  after  that  on  which  she  had  fallen  into 
the  death-like  swoon,  watching  her  with  a 
grave,  anxious  face,  and  earnest  eyes  that 
never  wandered  from  her  own. 

He  was  suffering  very  much  the  same  ago- 
ny that  Talbot  Bulstrode  had  endured  at  Fel- 
den  on  the  receipt  of  his  mother's  letter. 
The  dark  wall  was  slowly  rising  and  separat- 
ing him  from  the  woman  he  loved.  He  was 
now  to  discover  the  tortures  known  only  to 
the  husband  whose  wife  is  parted  from  him 
by  that  which  has  more  power  to  sever  than 
any  width  of  land  or  wild  extent  of  ocean  — 
a  secret. 

He  watched  the  pale  foce  l^'ing  on  the  pil- 
low; the  large,  black,  haggard  eyes,  wide 
open,  and  looking  blaukly^out  at  the  far- 
away purple  tree-tops  in'  the  horizon  ;  but 
there  was  no  clew  to  the  mystery  in  any  line 
of  that  beloved  countenance  ;  there  was  little 
more  than  an  expression  of  weariness,  as  if 
the  soul,  looking  out  of  that  white  face,  was 
so  utterly  enfeebled  as  to  have  lost  all  power 
to  feel  anything  but  a  vague  yearning  for 
rest. 

The  wide  casement  windows  wei-e  open, 
but  the  day  was  hot  and  oppressive  —  op- 
pressively still  and  sunny ;  .the  landscape 
sweltering  under  a  yellow  haze,  as  if  the  very 
atmosphere  had  been  opacjue  with  melted 
gold.  Even  the  roses  in  the  garden  seemed 
to  feel  the  influence  of  the  blazing  summer 
sky,  dropping  their  heavy  heads  like  human 
sufferers  from  headaclie.  The  mastiff  Bow- 
wow, lying  under  an  acacia  upon  the  lawn, 


was  as  peevish  as  any  captious  elderly  gentle- 
man, and  snapped  spitefully  at  a  frivolous 
butterfly  that  wheeled,  and  spun,  and  threw 
summersaults  about  the  dog's  head.  Beauti- 
ful as  was  this  summer's  day,  it  was  one  on 
which  peoj)le  are  apt  to  lose  their  tempers, 
and  quarrel  with  each  other  by  reason  of  the 
heat ;  every  man  feeling  a  secret  conviction 
that  iiis  neighbor  is  in  some  way  to  blame  for 
the  sultriness  of  the  atmosphere,  and  that  it 
would  be  cooler  if  he  were  out  of  the  way. 
It  was  one  of  those  days  on  which  invalids 
are  especially  fractious,  and  hospital  nurses 
murmur  at  their  vocation ;  a  day  on  which 
third-class  passengers  travelling  long  distances 
by  excursion-trains  are  savagely  clamorous 
for  beer  at  every  station,  and  hate  each  otlier 
for  the  narrowness  and  hardness  of  the  car- 
riage-seats, and  for  the  inadequate  means  of 
ventilation  provided  by  the  Railway  Compa- 
ny; a  day  on  which  stern  business  men  revolt 
against  tlie  ceaseless  grinding  of  the  wheel, 
and.  suddenly  reckless  of  consetjuences,  rush 
wildly  to  the  Crown  and  Sceptre,  to  cool  their 
overheated  systems  with  water  souchy  and 
still  hock;  an  abnormal  day,  upon  which  the 
machinery  of  every -day  life  gets  out  of  order, 
and  runs  riot  throughout  twelve  suffocating 
hours. 

John  Mellish,  sitting  patiently  by  his  wife's 
side,  thought  very  little  of  the  summer  weath- 
er. I  doubt  if  he  knew  whether  the  month 
was  January  or  June.  For  him  earth  only 
held  one  creature,  and  she  was  ill  and  In  dis- 
tress—  distress  from  which  he  was  powerless 
to  save  her  —  distress  the  very  nature  of 
which  he  was  ignorant. 

His  voice  trembled  when  he  spoke  to  her. 

"  My  darling,  you  have  been  very  ill,"  he 
said. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  so  unlike 
her  own  that  it  was  more  painful  to  him  to 
see  than  the  loudest  agony  of  tears,  and 
stretched  out  her  hand.  He  took  the  burn- 
ing hand  in  his,  and  held  it  while  he  talked' to 
her. 

"  Yes,  dearest,  you  have  been  ill ;  but  Mor- 
ton says  the  attack  was  merely  hysterical, 
and  that  you  will  be  yourself  again  to-mor- 
row, so  there  's  no  occasion  for  anxiety  on 
that  score.  What  grieves  me,  darling,  is  to 
see  that  there  is  something  on  your  mind  — 
something  which  has  been  the  real  cause  of 
your  Illness." 

She  turned  her  face  upon  the  pillow,  and 
tried  to  snatch  her  hand  from  his  in  her 
impatience,  but  he  held  it  tightly  In  both  his 
own. 

"  Does  my  speaking  of  yesterday  distress 
you,  Aurora  V"  he  asked,  gravely. 

"  Distress  me  ?     Oh,  no." 

"  Then  tell  me,  darling,  why  the  mention  of 
that  man,  the  trainer's  name,  had  such  a  ter- 
I'lble  eff'ect  upon  you." 

"  The  doctor  told  you  that  the  attack  was 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


75 


hysterical,"  she  said,  coldly;  "I  suppose  I  was 
hysterical  and  nervous  yesterday." 

"  But  the  name,  Aurora,  tlie  name.  This 
James  Conyers,  who  is  he  ?"  He  felt  the 
hand  he  held  tighten  convulsively  upon  his 
own  as  he  mentioned  the  trainer's  name. 

"  Who  is  this  man  ?  Tell  me,  Aurora.  For 
God's  sake,  tell  me  the  truth." 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him  once  more 
as  he  said  this.  1 

"  If  you  only  want  the  truth  from  me,  John,  } 
you  must  ask  me  nothinjr.     Remember  what  I 
said  to  you  at  the  Chateau  d'Anpics.     It  was 
a  secret  that  parted   me  from   Talbot    Bui-  j 
strode.      You  trusted  me   then.   John  —  you  i 
must  trust  me  to  the  end ;  or,  if  you  can  not  ! 
trust  me '" —  she  stopped   suddenly,  and  the  ; 
tears  welled  slowly  up  to  her  largt',  mourid'ul 
eyes  as  she  looked  at  her  husband.  i 

'  "  What,  dearest  ?"  I 

"  We  nuist  part  —  as  Talbot  and  I  parted." 

"  Part!"  he  cried  ;  "  my  love,  my  love!  Do 
you  think  there  is  anything  upon  this  earth 
strong  enough  to  part  us,  except  death  ?  Do 
you  think  that  any  combination  of  circum- 
stances, however  strange,  however  inexi)lica- 
l)le,  would  ever  cause  me  to  doubt  your  honor, 
or  to  tremble  for  my  own  ?  Could  I  be  here 
if  I  doubted  you  ?  could  I  sit  by  your  side, 
asking  you  these  questions,  if  1  feared  the 
issue?  Nothing  shall  shake  my  confidence  — 
nothing  can.  But  have  pity  on  me;  think 
how  bitter  a  grief  it  is  to  sit  here  with  your 
hand  in  mine,  and  to  know  that  there  is  a 
secret  between  us.  Aurora,  tell  me  —  this 
man,  this  Convers — what  is  he,  and  who 
is  he  ?" 

"  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  A  groom 
once;  afterward  a  jockey ;  and  now  a  trainer." 

•'  But  you  know  him  V" 

"  I  have  seen  him." 

"  When  ?" 

"  Some  years  ago,  when  he  was  in  my  fath- 
er's service." 

John  Mcllish  bieathed  more  freely  for  a 
moment.  The  man  had  been  a  groom  at  Fel- 
den  Woods,  that  was  all.  This  accounted  for 
the  fact  of  Aurora's  recognizing  his  name,  but 
not  for  her  agitation.  He  was  no  nearer  the 
clew  to  the  mystery  than  before. 

"  James  Conyers  was  in  your  father's  ser- 
vice,' he  .said,  thoughtfully;  ''but  why  should 
the  mention  of  his  nanu-  yesterday  have 
caused  you  sui;h  emotion  /" 

"  I  can  not  tell  you." 

"It  is  another  seeret,  then,  Aurora,"  he 
said,  reproachfully;  "or  has  this  man  any- 
thing to  flo  with  the  old  secret  of  which  you 
told  me  at  the  Chateau  d'Arfjues?" 

She  <lid  not  answer  him. 

"Ah  I  I  see  —  I  understand,  Aurora,"  he 
added,  after  a  pause.  "  This  man  wa.s  a  ser- 
vant at  Felden  Woods;  a  spy,  perhaps;  and 
he  discovered  the  secret,  anil  traded  U|)0n  it, 
as  servants   often    have    done    before.     This 


caused  your  agitation  at  hearing  his  name. 
You  were  afraid  that  he  would  come  here  and 
annoy  you,  making  use  of  this  secret  to  extort 
money,  and  keeping  you  in  perpetual  terror 
of  him.  I  think  1  can  understand  it  all.  I 
am  right,  am  I  not  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  something  of  the 
expression  of  a  hunted  animal  that  finds  itself 
at  bay. 

"  Yes,  John." 

"  This  man  —  this  groom  —  knows  some- 
thing of —  of  the  secret '.''" 

"  He  does." 

John  Mcllish  turned  away  his  head,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.     What  cruel  an- 
guish !  what  bitter  degradation  !     This  man, 
a  croom,  a  servant,  was  in  the  confidence  of 
his  wife,  and  had  such  power  to  harass  and 
alarm  her  that  the  very  mention  of  his  name 
was   enough   to  cast  her  to  the  earth,  as  if 
stricken    by   sudden    death.       What,    in    the 
name  of  Heaven,  could  this  secret  be,  which 
was  in  the  keeping  of  a  servant,  and  yet  could 
not  be  told  to  him  V     He  bit  his  lip  till  his 
strong  teeth  met  upon  the  (juivering  Uesh,  in 
the  silent  agony  of  that  thought.    What  could 
it  be  ?     He   had  sworn,  only  a  minute  before, 
to  trust  in  her  blindly  to  the  end ;  and  yet  — 
and  yet  —      His  massive  frame  shook   from 
;  head  to  heel  in  that  noiseless  struggle  ;  doubt 
;  and  despair  rose  like  twin  demons  in  his  soul: 
j  but   he    wrestled   with    them,   and   overcame 
:  them;  and,  turning  with  a  white  face  to  his 

wife,  said  cpiietly : 

I       "  I   will    press   these   painl'ul    questions    no 

:  faither,  Aurora.     I  will  write  to  Pastern,  and 

\  tell  him  that  the  man  will  not  suit  us;  and  — " 

He  was  rising  to  leave  her  bedside,  when 

she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

*'  Don't  write  to  Mr.  Pastern,  John,"  she 
,  said;  "  the  man  will  suit  you  very  well,  I  dare 
i  say.     I  had  rather  he  came." 

"  You  wish  him  to  come  here  ?" 
"Yes." 
i      "  But  he  will  annoy  you  ;  he  will  try  to  ex- 
j  tort  money  from  you." 

j      "  He  wouM  do  that- in  any  case,  since  lie  is 
1  alive.     I  thought  that  he  was  dead." 

"  Then  you  really  wish  him  to  come  here?" 
•      "  1  do." 

j      John  Mellish  left  his  wife's  room  inexpres- 
j  sibly   relieved.     The  secret  could   not  be  so 
i  VL'vy  terrible  alter  all,  since  she  was  willing 
j  that  the  man   who  knew   it  .should   come   to 
,  Mellish  Park,  where  there  was  at  lea.st  are- 
mote  chance  of  his  revealing  it  to  her  hus- 
band.     Perhaps,  after   all,  this  mystery   in- 
volveil  others  rather  than  herself— her  father's 
commercial  integrity  —  her  mother  '/     He  had 
,  heard    very    little    of    her    mother's    history ; 
I  jnrhajis  she  —     Pshaw  I  why  weary   himself 
with  speculative   surmises  V  he  had   promised 
:  to  trust  her,  and  the  hour  had  come  in  which 
ho  waf  calleil  upon  to  keep  his  promise.     He 
t  wrote  to  Mr.  Pastern,  accepting  his  recom- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


raendation  of  James  Conyers,  and  waited 
rather  impatiently  to  see  what  kind  of  man 
the  trainer  wa?. 

He  received  a  letter  fi-om  Conyers.  very 
well  written  and  wonietl,  to  the  effect  that  he 
would  arrive  at  ^leliish  Park  upon  the  third 
of  July. 

Aurora  had  recovered  from  her  brief  hys- 
terical attack  when  this  letter  arrived ;  but, 
as  she  was  still  weak  and  out  of  spirits,  her 
medical  man  recommended  chanpre  of  air  ;  so 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Meliish  drove  olf  to  Ilarrowgate 
upon  the  28th  of  June,  leaving  Mrs.  Powell 
beliind  them  at  the  Park. 

The  ensign's  widow  had  been  scrupulously 
kept  out  of  Aurora's  room  during  her  short 
illness,  being  held  at  bay  by  Joiin,  who  coolly 
shut  the  door  in  the  lady  s  sympatlietic  face, 
telling  her  that  he  'd  wait  upon  iiis  wife  him- 
self, and  that  when  he  wanted  female  assist- 
ance he  would  ring  for  Mrs.  Melllsh's  maid. 

Now,  ^Irs.  Waiter  Powell,  being  afflicted 
with  that  ravenous  curiosity  common  to  peo- 
ple who  live  in  other  people's  houses,  felt  her- 
self deeply  injured  by  this  line  of  conduct. 
There  were  mysteries  and  secrets  afloat,  and 
she  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  discover  them ; 
there  was  a  skeleton  in  the  house,  and  she 
was  not  to  anatomize  the  bony  horror.  She 
scented  trouble  and  sorrow  as  carnivorous 
animals  scent  their  prey,  and  yet  she,  who 
hated  Aurora,  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  riot 
at  the  unnatural  feast. 

Why  is  it  that  the  dependents  in  a  house- 
hold are  so  fererishly  inquisitive  about  the 
doings  and  sayings,  the  manners  and  customs, 
the  joys  antl  sorrows  of  those  Avho  emplov 
them  V  Is  it  that,  having  abnegated  for  them- 
selves all  active  share  in  life,  they  take  an  un- 
healthy interest  in  those  who  are  in  the  thick 
of  the  strife  ?  Is  it  because,  being  cut  oflf,  in 
a  great  measure,  by  the  nature  of  their  em- 
ployments from  family  tics  and  family  pleas- 
ures, they  feel  a  malicious  deligJit  in  all  faniil)- 
trials  and  vexations,  and  the  ever-recurring 
breezes  which  disturb  the  domestic  atmos- 
phere ?  Remember  this,  husbands  and  wives, 
fathers  and  fons,  mothers  and  daughters, 
brothers  and  sisters,  when  you  quarrel.  Your 
.<ervants  evjoy  the  fun.  Surely  that  recollec- 
tion ought  to  be  enough  to  keep  you  for  ever 
peaceful  and  friendly.  Your  servants  listen 
at  your  doors,  and  repeat  yoiu*  spiteful  speech- 
es in  the  kit(d)cn,  and  watch  you  while  they 
wait  at  table,  and  understand  every  sarcasm, 
every  innuendo,  every  look,  as  well  as  those  at 
whom  the  cruel  glances  and  the  stinging  words 
arc  aimeil.  They  understand  }our  sulky 
silence,  your  studied  and  overacted  politeness. 
The  most  polislied  form  your  hate  and  anger 
can  take  is  as  trausijarent  to  those  household 
spies  as  if  you  threw  knives  at  each  other,  or 
pelted  your  enemy  with  the  side-dish(\s  and 
vegetables,  after  the  fashion  of  disputants  in 
a  pantomime.     Nothing  that  is  done  in  the 


j  parlor  is  lost  upon  these  quiet,  well-behaved 
i  watchers  from  the  kitchen.     They  laugh   at 
:  you ;  nay,  worse,  they  pity  you.    They  discus-s 
i  vour  affairs,  and  make  out  your  incrome,  and 
settle  what  you  can  afford  to  do  and  what  yovi 
can't  afford  to  do  ;  they  prearrange  the  dis- 
i  posal  of  your  wife's  fortune,  and  look  prophet- 
i  ically  forward  to  the  day  when  you  will  avail 
1  yourself  of  the  advantages  of  the  new  Bank- 
j  ruptcy  Act.    They  know  why  you  live  on  bad 
I  terms  with    your   eldest  daughter,   and  why 
j  your  favorite  son   was  turned  out  of  doors; 
I  and  they  take  a  morbid  interest  in  every  dis- 
!  mal  secret  of  your  life.    You  don't  allow  them 
I  followers;  you  look  blacker  than  thunder  if 
you  see  Mary's  sister  or  John's  poor  old  moth- 
er sitting  meekly  in  your  hall ;  you  are  sur- 
!  prised  if  the  postman  brings  them  letters,  and 
I  attribute  the  fact  to  the  pernicious  system  of 
I  over-educating  the  masses  ;  you  shut  them  from 
}  tlieir  homes  and  their  kindred,  their  lovers 
j  and  their  friends ;  you  deny  them  books,  you 
j  grudge  them  a  peep  at  your  newspaper,  and 
(  then  you   lift  up   your   eyes   and  wonder  at 
them   because   they  are  inquisitive,   and  bo- 
cause  the  staple  of  their  talk  is  scandal  and 
gossip. 

Mrs.  Walter  Powell,  having  been  treated 

by   most   of  her   employers    as   a   species  of 

upper  servant,  had  acquired  all  the  instincts 

of  a  servant,  and  she  determined  to  leave  no 

j  means  untried  in  order  to  discover  the  cause 

1  of   Aurora's   illness,    which    the   doctor   had 

;  darkh'  hinted  to  her  had  more  to  do  with  the 

I  mind  than  the  body.     John  Meliish  had  or- 

i  dered  a  carpenter  to  repair  the  lodge  at  the 

:  north  gate  for   the  accommodation  of  James 

i  Conyers,  and  John's  old  trainer,  Langley,  was 

I  to  receive  his  colleague  and  introduce  him  to 

I  the  stables. 

I  The  new  trainer  made  his  appearance  at 
I  the  lodge-gates  in  the  glowing  July  sunset ; 
!  he  was  accompanied  by  no  less  a  person  than 
I  Steeve  Hargravcs,  the  softy,  who  had  been 
I  lurking  about  the  station  upon  the  look-out 
for  a  job,  and  avIio  had  been  engaged  by  Mr. 
Conyers  to  carry  his  portmanteau. 

To  the  surprise  of  the  trainer,  Stephen  Har- 
graves  set  down  his  burden  at  the  Park  gates. 
"  You  '11  have  to  find  some  one  else  to  carry 
it  th'  rest  't'  ro-ad,"  he  said,  touching  his 
greasy  cap,  and  extending  his  bi'oad  palm  to 
receive  the  expected  payment. 

Mr.  James  Conyers  was  rather  a  dashing 
fellow,  with  no  small  amount  of  that  quality 
which  is  generally  termed  "  swagger,"  so  he 
turned  sharply  round  upon  the  softy  and 
asked  him  what  the  devil  lie  meant. 

"I  mean  that  I  may  n't  go  inside  yon 
gates,"  muttered  Stephen  Hargravos ;  "  I 
mean  that  I  've  been  turned  out  of  yon  place 
that  I  've  lived  in,  man  and  boy,  for  forty 
years — turned  out  like  a  dog,  neck  and  crop." 
Mr.  Conyers  threw  away  the  stump  of  his 
cigar,  and  stared  superciliously  at  the  sot\y. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


77 


"  What  does  the  man  mcau  ?"  he  asked  of 
the  woman  who  had  opened  the  gates. 

"  Wliy,  poor  fellow,  he  's  a  bit  fond,  sir, 
and  him  and  Mrs.  Mellish  did  n't  out  on  very 
well ;  she  has  a  rare  spirit,  and  1  have  heanl 
that  she  horsewhipped  him  for  hoatin;):  her 
favorite  dopj.  Anyways,  master  turned  him 
out  of  his  service." 

"  Because  my  lady  had  horsewliipped  him. 
Servants' -  hall  justice  all.  the  world  over," 
siiid  the  trainer,  laughing,  and  lighting  a 
second  cigar  from  a  melal  fusee-bo.K  in  his 
waistcoat-pocket. 

"  Yes,  that  's  justice,  a'n't  it  ?"  the  softy 
said,  eagerly.  "  You  would  n't  like  to  be 
turned  out  of  a  place  as  you  'd  lived  in  forty 
year,  wotiid  3-011  ?  But  Mrs.  Mclli:5h  lias  a 
rare  spirit,  bless  her  pretty  face  !" 

The  blessing  enunciated  by  Mr.  Stephen 
Hargraves  had  such  a  very  ominous  sound 
tliat  tlie  new  trainer,  who  was  evidently  a 
shrewd,  observant  i'ellow,  took  his  cigar  from 
his  mouth  on  jiurpose  to  atare  at  him.  The 
white  face,  lighted  up  by  a  pair  of  red  eyes 
with  a  dim  glimmer  in  them,  was  by  no  means 
the  most  agreeable  of  countenances  ;  but  Mr. 
Conyers  looked  at  the  man  for  some  moments, 
holding  him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat  in  oi-der 
to  do  so  with  more  deliberation  ;  then,  push- 
ing the  soity  away  with  an  alfably  contempt- 
uous gesture,  he  said,  laughing: 

"  You  're  a  character,  my  friend,  it  strikes 
me,  and  not  too  safe  a  character  cither.  I  'm 
dashed  if  I  should  like  to  oli'end  you.  There  's 
a  shilling  for  your  trouble,  my  man,"  he  ad- 
ded, tossing  the  money  into  Steeve's  extended 
palm  with  careless  dexterity. 

"I  suppose  I  can  leave  my  portmanteau 
here  till  to-morrow,  ma'am  V"  he  said,  turning 
to  the  woman  at  the  lodge.  •'  I  "d  carry  it 
down  to  the  house  myself,  if  I  was  n't  lame" 

He  was  sucli  a  handsome  fellow,  and  had 
.such  an  easy,  careless  manner,  that  the  sim- 
ple Yorkshirewonian  was  quite  subdued  by 
hi.i  fascinations. 

"  Leave  it  iiere,  sir,  and  welcome,"  she  said, 
eourteaying,  "  and  my  master  shall  take  it  to 
the  house  for  you  as  soon  as  he  conies  in. 
Begging  3"our  pardon,  sir,  but  I  supjjose  you  're 
the  new  gentleman  that  's  expected  in  the 
.stables  ?" 

"  Precisely." 

"Then  I  was  to  tell  you,  .sir,  that  they  've 
fitted  up  the  north  lodge  tor  you  ;  but  you 
was  to  please  go  straight  to  the  house,  and 
the  hou.-ekeeper  was  to  make  you  comfortable 
aiifLgive  you  a  bed  for  to-night." 

Mr.  Conyers  nodded,  thanked  her,  wished 
her  gcK)d  -  night,  and  limped  slowly  away, 
through  the  siiadows  of  the  fv<ning,  and 
under  the  shelter  of  the  overarching  trees. 
He  stepped  aside  from  the  broad  carriage- 
drive  on  to  i\\v  dewy  turf  that  bordered  it, 
chooBing  the  ."oftest,  moasiest  pla' es,  with  a 
»yb»ritc's  instinct.     Look  at  him  as  he  takes 


his  slow  wa>-  under  those  glorious  branches, 
in  the  hol>-  stillness  of  the  summer  sunset,  his 
face  sometimes  lighted  by  the  low,  lessening 
rays,  sometimes  dark  with  the  shadows  from 
the  leaves  above  his  head.     He  is  wonderfully 
handsome  —  wonderfully  and  perfectly  hand- 
some— the  very  perfection  of  physical  beauty; 
faultless  in  proportion,  as  if  each  line  in  his 
face    and  form    had  been    measured    by   the 
sculptor's  rule,  and  carved  by  the  sculptor's 
chisel.     He   is    a  man    about   whose    beanty 
there   can    be    no    disimte,  whose    perfection 
servant-maids  and  duchesses  must  alike  con- 
fess,  albeit   they  are   not   bound  to   admire ; 
yet  it  is  rather  a  sensual  type  of  beautv,  this 
splendor  of  form  and  color,  uuallied  to  aay 
special   charm   of  exi)ression.     Look   at   him 
now,  as  he  stops  to  rest,  leaning  against  the 
trunk  of  a  tree,  and  smoking  his  l)ig  cimir 
with  easy  enjoyment.     He  is  thinking.     His 
dark  blue  eyes,  deeper  in   color  by  reason  of 
the  thick  black  lashes  which  fringe  them,  are 
half  closed,  and  have   a  dreamy,  semi-senti- 
mental expression,  M'hich  might   lead  you  to 
suppose  the  man  was  musing  ujion  tlie  beauty 
of  the  summer  sun.set.     He  is  thinking  of  his 
losses  on  the  Chester  Cup,  the  wages  he  i.s  to 
get  from  John    Mellish,  and   the  perquisites 
likel}'  to  appertain  to  tlie  situation.     You  give 
him   credit   for   thoughts  to   match  with  his 
dark,    violet -hued    eyes,    and    the    exqui.sitt' 
modelling  of  his  mouth   and  chin  ;  j-ou  give 
him  a  mind  as  iust.hetically  perfect  as  his  fat'e 
and    figure,    and   you    recoil    on    discovering 
I  what   a   vulgar  every -da}-   sword   may   lurk 
\  under   that   beautiful   .scabbard.     Mr.   Jamoi; 
!  Confers  is,  perhaps,  no  worse,  than  other  men 
'  of  his  station,  but  he  is  decide<liy  no  better. 
I  He  is  only  very   much  handsomer ;  and  you 
j  have  no  right  to  be  angry  with  him  because 
!  his  opinions  and  sentiments  are  exactlj-  what 
:  they  would  have  been  if  he  had  had  red  hair 
:  and  a  pug  nose.     With  what  wonderful  wis- 
j  dom  has  George  Kliot  told  ns  that  people  are 
;  not  any  better  because  they  have  long  eye- 
!  lashes !     Yet  it  must   be   that  there  is  somc- 
;  thing  anomalous  in  this  outward  beauty  and 
inward   ugliness;  for,  in   sjjite  of  all  experi- 
■  eiice,  we  revolt  against  it,  and  are  incredulous 
to  the  last,  believing  tliat  the  palace  which  it; 
;  outwardly  so  splendid  can  scarcely  be  ill  fur- 
\  nished  within.     Heaven  help  the  woman  who 
^  sells    her    heart    for    a    handsome    lace,    and 
i  awakes,  when  tlie  bargain  has  been  stru(;k,  to 
;  discover  the  foolishness  of  .^uch  an  exchange. 
!       It  took  Mr.  Conyers  a  long  while  to  walk 
I  from  the  lodge  to  the  house.     1  do  not  know 
'  how,    technically-,   to    descrilje    his    lameness. 
1  He  had  fallen,  with  his  horse,  in  the  i'ru.ssian 
I  8teej)le-chase,  which   had  so   nearly  cost  him 
\  his  life,  and  his  left  leg  had  been  terribly  in- 
'  jured.     The  Wnes  had  been  .set  by  wonderful 
:  (ierman  surgeon",  who  put  tlie  shattered  leg 
;  together  as  if  it  had  bt-eu  a  Chinese  pnzzle, 
but  who,  with  all  their  .*kill,  could  not  pre- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


vent  the  contraction  of  tlie  sinews,  which  had 
left  the  jockey  lamed  for  life,  and  no  longer 
fit  to  ride  in  any  race  whatever.  He  was  of 
the  middle  height,  and  weighed  something 
over  eleven  stone,  and  had  never  ridden  ex- 
cept in  Continental  steeple-chases. 

Mr.  James  Conyev.s  paused  a  few  paces 
from  tbc  liotise,  and  gravely  contemplated  the 
irrcirular  pile  of  buildings  before  him. 

"  A  snug  crib,"  he  muttered  ;  "  plenty  of 
tin  hereabouts,  I  should  think,  from  tlie  look 
of  the  place." 

Being  ignorant  of  the  geography  of  the 
ncigliborhood,  and  being,  moreover,  by  no 
nicans  afflicted  by  an  e.vcess  of  modesty,  5Ir. 
Oonyers  went  straight  to  the  principal  door, 
and  rang  the  bell  sacred  to  visitors  and  the 
family. 

He  was  admitted  by  a  grave  old  man-ser- 
vant, who,  after  delilierately  inspecting  his 
brown  shooting-coat,  colored  shirt-front,  and 
felt  hat,  asked  him,  with  considerable  asper- 
ity, what  he  was  pleased  to  want. 

Mr.  Conyers  explained  that  he  was  the  new 
trainer,  and  that  he  wished  to  see  the  house- 
keeper; but  he  had  hardly  finished  doing  so 
when  a'door  in  an  angle  of  the  hall  was  softly 
opened,  and  Mrs.  Walter  Powell  peeped  out 
of  the  snug  little  apartment  sacred  to  her 
hours  of  privacy. 

"  Perhaps  the  young  man  will  be  so  good 
as  to  step  in  here,"  addressing  herself  appar- 
ently to  spa(!e,  but  indirectly  to  James  Con- 
yers. 

The  young  man  took  oiF  his  hat,  uncovering 
amass  of  luxuriant  brown  curls,  and  limped 
across  the  hall  in  obedience  to  Mrs.  Powell's 
invitation. 

"  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  able  to  give  you  any 
information  you  require." 

James  Conyers  smiled,  wondering  whether 
the  bilious-looking  party,  as  he  mentally  des- 
ignated Mrs.  Powell,  could  give  him  any  in- 
formation about  the  York  summer  meeting; 
but  he  bowed  politely,  and  said  he  merely 
wanted  to  know  where  he  was  to  hang  out — 
he  stop[)ed  and  apologized  —  where  he  was  to 
sleep  that  night,  and  whether  there  were  any 
letters  for  him.  But  Mrs.  Powell  was  by  no 
means  inclined  to  let  hint  off  so  cheaply. 
She  set  to  work  to  pump  him,  and  labored  so 
assiduously  that  she  soon  exhausted  that  very 
small  amount  of  intelligence  which  he  was 
disposeil  to  afford  her,  bi'iiig  perfectly  aware 
of  the  proiress  to  wliich  he  was  subjected,  and 
more  than  equal  to  the  lady  in  dexterity. 
The  ensign's  widow,  therefore,  ascertained 
little  more  than  that  Mr.  (.Jonyers  was  a  per- 
fect stranger  to  John  Mellish  and  his  wife, 
neither  of  whom  he  had  ever  seen. 

Having  failed  to  gain  much  by  this  inter- 
view, Mrs.  Powell  was  anxious  to  bring  it  to 
a  speedy  termination. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  a  glass  of  wine 
after  your  Avalk  ?"  she  paid  ;  "I  '11  ring  for 


]  some,   and   I  can   inquire  at  the  same   time 
'  about  jour  letters.     1  dare  say  you  are  anx- 
ious  to  hear  from  the  relatives  you  have  left 
!  at  home." 

Mr.  Conyers  smiled  for  the  second  time. 
1  He  had  neither  had  a  home  nor  any  relatives 
I  to  speak  of  since  the  most  infantine  period  of 
!  his  existence,  but  had  been  thrown  upon  the 
i  world  a  sharp-witted  adventurer  at  seven  or 
!  eight  j-ears  old.  The  "relatives"  for  whose 
i  communication  he  was  looking  out  so  eagerly 
j  were  members  of  the  humbler  class  of  book- 
i  men  with  whom  he  did  business. 
1  The  servant  despatched  by  Mrs.  Powell 
i  returned  with  a  decanter  of  sherry  and  about 
i  half  a  dozen  letters  for  Mr.  Cony«'rs. 
i  "  You  'd  better  bring  the  lamp,  William," 
I  said  Mrs.  Powell,  as  the  man  left  the  room, 
I  "  for  I  'm  sure  you  '11  never  be  able  to  read 
I  your  letters  by  this  light,"  she  added  politely 
to  Mr.  Conyers. 

The  fact  was,  that  Mrs.  Powell,  afflicted  by 
that  diseased  curiosity  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
wanted  to  know  what  kind  of  correspondents 
these  were  whose  letters  the  trainer  was  so 
anxious  to  receive,  and  sent  for  the  lamp  in 
order  that  she  might  get  the  full  benefit  of 
any  scraps  of  information  to  be  got  at  by 
rapid  glances  and  dexterously  stolen  peeps. 

The  servant  brought  a  brilliant  camphene 
lamp,  and  Mr.  Conyers,  not  at  all  abashed  by 
Mrs.  Powell's  condescension,  drew  his  chair 
close  to  the  table,  and,  after  tossing  off  a 
glass  of  sherry,  settled  himself  to  the  perusal 
of  his  letters. 

The  ensign's  widow,  with  some  needle-work 
in  her  hand,  sat  directly  opposite  to  him  at 
the  small  round  table,  with  nothing  but  the 
pedestal  of  the  lamp  between  them. 

James  Conyers  took  up  the  first  letter,  ex- 
amined the  superscription  and  seal,  tore  open 
the  envelope,  read  the  brief  communication 
upon  half  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  and  thrust  it 
into  his  waistcoat-pocket.  Mrs.  Powell,  using 
her  eyes  to  the  utmost,  saw  nothing  but  a  few 
lines  in  a  scratchy,  plebeian  handwriting,  and 
a  signature  Avhich,  seen  at  a  disadvantage 
upside  down,  did  n't  look  unlike  "  Johnson." 
The  second  enveloj)e  contained  only  a  tissue- 
paper  betting-list;  the  third  held  a  dirty  scrap 
of  paper  with  a  few  words  scrawled  in  pen- 
cil ;  but  at  sight  of  the  uppermost  envelope 
of  the  remaining  three  Mr.  James  Conyers 
started  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  Mrs.  Powell 
looked  from  the  face  of  the  trainer  to  the 
superscription  of  the  letter,  and  was  scarcely 
less  surprised  than  Mr.  Conyers.  The  super- 
scription was  in  the  handwriting  of  Aurora 
Mellish. 

It  was  a  peculiar  hand  —  a  hand  about 
which  there  could  be  no  mistake ;  not  an  ele- 
gant Italian  hand,  sloping,  slender,  and  femi- 
nine, but  large  and  bold,  with  ponderous 
up-strokes  and  down-strokes,  easy  to  recog- 
nize  at  a  Jireater  distance  than  that  which 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


separated  Mrs.  Powell  from  the  trainer. 
There  was  no  room  for  any  doubf.  Mrs. 
Melllsh  had  written  to  her  husban<rs  servant, 
and  the  man  was  evidently  familiar  with 
her  hand,  yet  surprised  at  receiving  her 
letter. 

He  tore  open  the  enrelope,  and  read  the 
contents  eagerly  twice  over,  frowning  darkly 
as  he  read. 

•  Mrs.  Powell  suddenly  remembered  that  she 
had  left  part  of  her  needle -work  upon  a 
chi(ronnii?r  behind  the  young  man's  chair,  and 
rose  quietly  to  fetch  it.  He  was  .'?o  much 
engrossed  by  the  letter  in  his  hand  that  he 
was  not  aware  of  the  pale  face  wliich  peered 
for  one  brief  moment  over  his  shoulder,  as  the 
faded,  hungry  eyes  stole  a  glance  at  tlie 
writing  on  the  page. 

The  letter  was  written  on  the  first  side  of  a 
sheet  of  note-paper,  with  only  a  few  words 
carried  over  to  the  second  page.  It  was  this 
second  ])age  which  Mrs.  Powell  saw.  The 
words  written  at  the  top  of  the  leaf  were 
these:   "  Above  all,  expi-esf  no  sii7-p7-ise. — A." 

There  was  no  ordinary  conclusion  to  the 
letter;  no  other  signature  tJian  this  big 
capital  A. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

TllK    TKAIXKR'S    MESSKNGEU. 

Mr.  James  Conyers  made  himself  very 
much  at  home  at  Mellisli  Park.  Poor  Lang- 
ley,  the  invalid  trainer,  who  was  a  Yorkshire- 
man,  felt  himself  almost  bewildered  by  the 
easy  insolence  of  the  town-bred  trainer.  He 
looked  so  much  too  handsome  and  dashing  for 
his  office  that  the  ijrooms  and  stable-boys 
bowed  down  to  him,  and  paid  court  to  him  as 
they  had  never  done  to  snnple  Langley,  who 
had  lieen  very  often  obliged  to  enforce  his 
commands  with  a  horsewhip  or  a  serviceable 
leather  strap.  James  Conyers'  handsome  face 
was  a  capital  with  which  tliat  gentleman 
knew  very  well  how  to  trade,  and  he  took 
the  full  amount  of  interest  that  was  to  be  got 
for  it  without  compunction.  I  am  sorry  to  be 
obliged  to  confess  that  this  man,  who  had  sat 
in  the  artists'  studios  and  the  life  academies 
for  .'\ polio  and  Antinous,  wa.s  !<elfish  to  the 
backbone;  and,  so  long  as  he  was  well  fcl, 
and  clothed,  and  housed,  and  provided  for, 
Vared  very  little  whence  the  fond  and  cloth- 
ing came,  or  who  kept  the  hou-e  that  shel- 
tered him,  or  filled  the  purse  which  he  jingled 
in  his  trowscrs-pocket.  Heaven  forbid  that  I 
should  be  caih  d  up^m  for  his  biograi)hy.  I 
only  know  that  he  sprang  from  the  mire  of 
the  streets,  like  some  male  .\i>liroflitc  rising 
from  the  mud ;  that  he  was  a  bla<  kh'g  in  the 
gutter  at  four  years  of  ago,  and  a  wclshcr  in 
the  matter  of  marbles  and  hardbake  before 
hip  fifth  birthdav.    Even  then  he  was  for  ever 


reaping  the  advantage  of  a  handsome  face ; 
for  tender-hearted  matrons,  who  would  have 
been  deaf  to  the  cries  of  a  snub-nosed  urchin, 
petted  and  compassionated  the  pretty  boy. 

In  his  earliest  childhood  he  learned  there- 
fore to  trade  upon  his  beauty,  and  to  get  the 
nVost  that  he  could  for  that  merchandise;  and 
he  grew  up  utterly  un))rincipled,  and  carried 
his  handsome  face  out  into  the  world  to  help 
him  on  to  fortune.  He  was  extravagant,  lazy, 
luxurious,  and  selfish ;  but  he  had  that  easy, 
indifferent  grace  of  manm.'r  wliich  passes 
with  shallow  observers  for  good-nature.  He 
would  not  have  gone  three  jiaces  out  of  his 
way  to  serve  his  best  friend ;  but  he  smiled 
and  showed  his  handsome  white  teeth  with 
equal  liberality  to  all  his  actjuaintance,  and 
took  credit  for  being  a  frank,  generous - 
hearted  fellow  on  the  strength  of  that  smile. 
He  was  skilled  in  the  uses  of  that  gilt  gin- 
gerbread of  generosity  which  so  of\en  passes 
current  for  sterling  gold.  He  was  dexterous 
in  the  handling  of  tiiose  cogged  dice  which 
have  all  the  rattle  of  the  honest  ivories.  A 
slap  on  the  back,  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand, 
often  went  as  far  from  him  as  the  loan  of 
a  sovereign  from  another  man  ;  and  Jim  Con- 
yers was  firmly  believed  in  by  the  doubtful 
gentlemen  with  whom  he  associated  as  a  good- 
natured  fellow  who  was  nobody's  enemy  but 
his  own.  He  had  that  superficial  Cockney 
cleverness  which  is  generally  called  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  —  knowledge  of  the  worst 
side  of  the  world — and  utter  ignorance  of  all 
that  is  noble  u[ion  earth,  it  might  perhaps  be 
more  justly  called;  he  had  matriculated  in 
the  streets  of  London,  and  graduated  on  the 
race-course  ;  he  had  never  read  any  higher 
literature  thaiv  the  Sunday  papers  and  the 
Raciufj  Calendar,  but  he  contrived  to  make  a 
very  little  learning  go  a  long  way,  and  was 
generally  .spoken  of  by  his  employers  as  a 
superior  young  man,  considerably  above  his 
station. 

Mr.  Conyers  expressed  himself  very  well 
contented  witk  the  rustic  lodge  which  had 
been  chosen  for  his  dwelling-house.  He  con- 
descendingly looked  on  while  the  stable-laifs 
carried  the  furniture  selected  lor  him  by  the 
housekeeper  from  the  spare  servants'  rooms 
from  the  house  to  the  lodge,  and  assisted  in 
the  arrangement  of  the  tiny  rustic  chambers, 
limping  about  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  show- 
ing himself  wonderfully  handy  with  a  bam- 
m'T  and  a  po<^'ket  full  of  nails.  He  sat  upon 
a  table  and  drank  beer  with  such  charming 
affability  that  the  stable-lads  were  as  grate- 
ful to  him  as  if  he  had  tn  ated  them  t<i  that 
bi-v(Tage.  Indeed,  Si-eing  the  frank  cordiality 
with  which  James  Conyers  smote  the  lad.s 
upon  the  back,  and  pr3ye<l  them  to  be  active 
with  the  ctn,  it  wa:^  almost  difficult  to  re- 
member that  he  was  not  the  giver  of  the 
fea.'-t,  and  that  it  was  Mr.  John  Alellish  who 
would  have  to  ]iay  the  brewer's  bill.     What, 


80 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


among  all  tlic  virtues  wliicli  adorn  tiiis  earth, 
can  be  more  oharmin;;  than  the  generosity  of 
upper  servants  I  "With  what  hearty  hospi- 
tahty  they  pass  the  bottle!  how  liberally  they 
throw  the  seven-shilling  gunpowder  into  the 
teapot !  how  unsparingly  they  spread  the 
twenty-penny  fresh  butter  on  the  toast !  aivi 
wliat  a  glorious  welcome  they  give  to  the 
drojipers-iii  of  the  servants'  hall  I  It  is 
scarcely  wonderful  that  the  recipients  of 
their  bounty  forget  that  it  is  the  master  of 
the  household  who  will  be  called  upon  for  the 
expenses  of  the  banquet,  and  who  will  look 
ruefully  at  the  total  of  the  quarter's  house- 
keeping. 

It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  so  dashing  a 
fellow  as  ]\Ir.  James  Conycrs  could,  in  the 
lodging-house-keeper's  jkiIois,  "  do  for'  him- 
self. He  required  a  huuible  drudge  to  black 
his  boots,  make  his  bed,  boil  his  kettle,  cook 
his  dinner,  and  keep  the  two  little  chambers 
at  the  lodge  in  decent  order.  Casting  about 
in  a  reflective  mood  for  a  fitting  person  for 
this  ofFiee,  his  recreant  fancy  hit  upon  Steeve 
Hargraves,  the  softy.  He  was  sitting  upon 
the  sill  of  an  open  window  in  the  little  parlor 
of  the  lodge,  smoking  a  cigar  and  drinking 
out  of  a  can  of  beer,  when  this  idea  came 
into  his  head.  He  was  so  tickled  by  the 
notion  that  he  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth 
in  order  to  laugh  at  his  ease. 

"  The  liiAn  's  a  character,"  he  said,  still 
laughing,  "  and  I  '11  have  him  to  wait  upon 
me.  He  's  been  forbid  the  place,  has  he  V 
turned  out  neck  and  crop  because  my  Lady 
Highropes  horsewhipped  him.  Never  mind 
that ;  1  HI  give  him  leave  to  come  back,  if  it  's 
only  for  the  fun  of  the  thing." 

He  limped  out  upon  the  high-road  half  an 
hour  after  this,  and  went  into  the  village  to 
find  Steeve  Hargraves.  He  had  little  didi- 
culty  in  doing  this,  as  everybody  knew  the 
.softy,  and  a  chorus  of  boys  volunteered  to 
fetch  him  i'rom  the  house  of  the  doctor,  in 
whose  service  he  <lid  odd  jobs,  and  brought 
him  to  Mr.  Conyers  five  minutes  afterward, 
looking  very  liot  and  dirty,  but  as  pale  of 
complexion  as  usual. 

Stephen  Hargraves  agreed  ver}'  readily  to 
abandon  his  present  occupation,  and  to  wait 
upon  the  trainer,  in  consideration  of  five 
shillings  a  week  and  his  board  and  lodging; 
but  his  countenance  fell  when  he  discovered 
that  Mr.  Conyers  was  in  the  service  of  John 
Mellish,  and  livcil  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
i'ark. 

"  You  're  afraid  of  setting  foot  upon  .his 
estate,  are  you  ?'  said  the  trainer,  laughing. 
"  Never  mind,  Steeve,  I  give  you  leaye  to 
come,  and  I  sliould  like  to  see  the  man  or 
woman  in  that  house  who  '11  interfere  with 
any  whim  of  mine.  /  give  y^tfleave.  You 
understand." 

The  softy  touched  his  cap,  and  tried  to  look 
a.s  if  he  understood  ;  but  it  was  very  evident 


that  he  did  not  understand,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  Mr.  Conyers  could  persuade  him 
that  his  life  would  be  safe  within  the  gates  of 
MelHsh  Park ;  but  he  was  ultimately  induced 
to  trust  himself  at  the  north  lodge,  and  prom- 
ised to  present  himself  there  iu  the  course  of 
the  evening.  ■• 

Now,  Mr.  James  Conyers  had  exerted  him- 
self as  much  in  order  to  overcome  the  cow- 
ardly objections  of  this  rustic  clown  as  hp 
could  have  done  if  Steeve  Hargraves  had 
been  the  most  accomplished  body-servant  in 
the  three  ridings.  Perhaps  there  was  some 
deeper  motive  than  any  regard  for  the  man 
himself  in  this  special  preference  for  the 
softy  ;  some  lurking  malice,  some  petty  spite, 
the  key  to  which  was  hidden  in  his  own 
breast.  If,  while  standing  smoking  in  the 
village  street,  cliaffinij  the  softy  for  the  edifi- 
cation of  the  lookers-on,  and  taking  so  much 
trouble  to  secure  such  an  ignorant  and 'orutish 
esquire — if  one  shadow  of  the  future,  so  very 
near  at  hand,  could  have  fallen  across  his 
path,  surely  he  would  liave  instinctively  re- 
coiled from  the  striking  of  that  ill-omened 
bargain. 

But  James  Conyers  had  no  superstition ; 
indeed,  he  was  so  pleasantly  free  from  that 
weakness  as  to  be  a  disbeliever  in  all  things 
ia  heaven  and  on  earth,  except  himself  and 
his  own  merits;  so  he  hired  the  softy,  for  the 
fun  of  the  thing,  as  he  called  it,  and  walked 
slowly  back  to  the  Park  gates  to  watch  for 
the  return  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellieh,  who  were 
expected  tiiat  afternoon. 

The  woman  at  the  lodge  brought  him  out  a 
chair,  and  begged  him  to  rest  himself  under 
the  portico.  He  thanked  her  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  and  sat  down  among  the  roses  and 
honeysuckles,  and  lighted  another  cigar. 

"  You  '11  find  the  north  lodge  dull,  I  'm 
thinking,  sir,"  the  woman  said,  from  the  open 
window,  Avhere  she  had  reseated  herself  with 
her  needle-work. 

"  Well,  it  is  n't  very  lively,  ma'am,  cer- 
tainly," answered  Mr.  Conyers,  "  but  it  .serves 
my  purpose  well  enough.  The  place  is  lonely 
enough  for  a  man  to  be  murdered  there  and 
nobody  be  any  the  wiser ;  but,  as  I  have 
nothing  to  lose,  it  will  answer  well  enough 
for  me." 

He  might,  perhaps,  have  said  a  good  deal 
more  about  the  place,  but  at  this  moment  the 
sound  of  wheels  upon  the  high-road  an- 
nounced the  return  of  the  travellers,  and 
two  or  three  minutes  afterward  the  carriage 
dashed  through  the  gate,  and  past  Mr.  James 
Conyers. 

Whatever  power  thi.s  man  might  have  over 
Aurora,  whatever  knowledge  of  a  compromis- 
ing secret  he  might  have  obtained  and  traded 
upon,  the  fearlessness  of  her  nature  showed 
itself  now  as  always,  and  she  never  flinched 
at  the  sight  of  him.  If  he  had  placed  himself 
in  her  M'ay  on  purpose  to  watch  the  effect  ofj 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


81 


his  presence,  he  must  have  been  disappointed; 
tor,  except  that  a  cold  shadow  of  diadain 
passed  over  her  iace  as  the  carriage  drove  by 
nim,  he  miiiht  have  imagined  himself  unseen. 
She  looked  j)ale  and  careworn,  and  her  eyes 
seemed  to  have  grown  larger  since  her  illness; 
but  she  held  her  head  as  erect  as  ever,  and 
had  still  the  air  of  imperial  grandeur  which 
constituted  one  of  her  chief  cliarms. 

"  So  that  is  Mr.  Mellisb,"  said  Conyers,  as 
the  carriage  disappeared.  "  He  seems  very 
fond  of  his  wife." 

"  Yes,  sure  ;  and  he  is,  too.  Fond  of  her  ! 
Why,  they  .><ay  there  is  n't  another  such  couple 
in  all  Yorkshire.  And  she  '.s  fond  of  iiim, 
too,  bless  her  handsome  face!  But  who 
would  n't  be  ibnd  of  Master  John  ?" 

Mr.  Conyers  shrugged  his  shoulders ;  these 
patriarehal  habits  and  domestic  virtues  had 
no  parti(;ul;ir  eharm  for  him. 

•'  She  had  plenty  of  money,  had  n't  she  ?"  he 
a<ked,  by  way  of  bringing  the  conversation 
into  a  more  rational  channel. 

"Plenty  of  money  I  I  should  think  so. 
They  say  her  pa  gave  her  fifVy  thousand 
pounds  down  on  her  wedding-day ;  not  that 
our  master  wants  money ;  he  's  got  enough, 
and  to  spare.'" 

"  Ah  !  to  be  sure,"  answered  Mr.  Conyers ; 
"  that  's  always  the  way  of  it.  The  banker 
gave  her  filly  thousand,  did  he  V  If  Miss 
Kloyd  had  married  a  poor  devil,  now,  I  don't 
.luppose  her  father  would  have  given  her  fifty 
■sixpences." 

*'  Well,  no;  if  she'd  gone  against  his  wishes, 
I  don't  suppose  he  would.  lie  was  here  in  the 
:*pring  —  a  nioe.  white-haired  old  gentleman, 
but  failing  fast." 

•'  Failing  fast.  And  Mrs.  Mellish  will  come 
into  a  quarter  of  a  million,  at  his  death,  I  sup- 
pose. Good  aiternoon,  ma'am.  It  's  a  queer 
world."  Mr.  Conyers  took  up  his  stick,  and 
limped  away  under  the  trees,  repeating  this 
ejaculation  as  he  went.  It  was  a  habit  with 
this  gentleman  to  attribute  the  good  fortune 
of  other  people  to  some  eeeentrieity  in  the 
machinery  of  life,  by  which  he,  the  only  real- 
ly deserving  person  in  the  world,  had  been 
deprived  of  his  natural  rights.  He  went 
through  the  wfx)d  into  a  meadow  where  some 
of  the  horses  under  his  charge  were  at  gra.ss, 
and  spent  upward  of  an  hour  lounging  about 
the  he(!ge-row«,  sitting  on  gates,  smoking  his 
pipe,  and  staring  at  the  animals,  which  seemed 
about  the  iiardest  work  he  had  to  <lo  in  his 
i:apaeity  ot"  trainer.  •'  It  is  n't  a  very  hard 
life,  when  all  '«  said  and  done,"  he  thought, 
as  he  looked  at  a  group  of  mares  and  foals, 
who,  in  tluii"  <'e<entrie  diversions,  were  per- 
forming a  sp'<  ies  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly  up 
and  down  the  meadow.  "  It  is  n't  a  very 
hard  life ;  for  as  long  a*  a  fellow  swears  hard 
and  fast  at  the  lads,  and  gets  rid  of  plenty  of 
oaf«,  he  "a  right  enough.  These  country  gen- 
xloroen  always  judge  a  man's  merits  by  the 
6 


quantity  of  corn  they  have  to  pay  for.  Feed 
their  horses  as  fat  as  pigs,  and  never  enter 
'em  except  among  such  a  set  of  screws  as  an 
active  pig  could  oeat,  and  they  'II  swear  by 
you.  They  'd  think  more  of  having  a  horse 
win  the  Margate  plate,  or  the  Ilampstead 
Ileatli  sweepstakes,  than  if  he  ran  a  good 
fourth  in  the  Derby.  Bless  their  innocent 
hearts!  I  should  think  fellows  with  plenty 
of  money  and  no  brains  must  have  been  in- 
vented tor  the  good  of  fellows  with  plenty  of 
brains  and  no  money;  and  that  's  how  we 
contrive  to  keep  our  equilibrium  in  the  uni- 
versal see-saw." 

Mr.  James  Conyers,  puffing  lazy  clouds  of 
transparent  blue  smoke  from  his  lips,  and  pon- 
dering thus,  looked  as  sentimental  as  if  ho  had 
been  ruminating  upon  the  last  three  pages  of 
the  BrU/e  of  Abifdns,  or  the  death  of  Paul 
Dombey.  He  had  that  romantic  style  of 
beauty  peculiar  to  dark  blue  eyes  ami  long 
black  lashes,  and  he  could  not  wonder  what 
he  should  have  for  dinner  without  a  dreamy 
pensiveness  in  the  purple  shadows  of  those 
deep  blue  orbs.  He  had  found  the  sentimen- 
tality of  his  beauty  almost  of  greater  u.se  to 
him  than  the  beauty  itself.  It  was  this  .senti- 
mentality which  always  put  him  at  on  advan- 
tage with  his  employers.  He  looked  like  aa 
exiled  prince  doing  menial  service  in  bitter- 
ness of  spirit  and  a  turned-down  collar,  lie 
looked  like  Lara  returned  to  his  own  domains 
to  train  the  horses  of  a  usuiper.  He  looked, 
in  short,  like  anything  but  what  he  was  —  a 
selfish,  good-for-nothing,  lazy  scoundrel,  who 
was  well  up  in  the  useful  art  of  doing  the  mis- 
imum  of  work,  and  getting  the  maximum  of 
wa^es. 

He  strolled  slowly  back  to  his  rustic  habita- 
tion, where  he  found  the  softy  waiting  for 
him;  the  kettle  boiling  upon  a  handful  of 
bright  fire,  and  some  tea-things  laid  out  upon 
the  little  round  table.  Mr.  Conyers  looked 
rather  contemptuously  at  the  humble  prepara- 
tions. 

"  I  've  mashed  the  tea  for  'ee,"  said  the 
softy  ;  "  I  thought  you  'd  like  a  coop." 

The  trainer  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  can't  say  I  am  particularly  attached  to 
the  cat-lap,"  he  said,  laughing;  "I  've  had 
rather  too  much  of  it  when  I  've  been  in 
training  —  half-and-half,  warm  tea.  and  cold- 
drawn  castor-oil.  I  '11  send  yon  into  Doncas- 
ter  for  some  spirit.'^  to-morrow,  ni\  man  —  or 
to-night,  perhaps,"  he  added,  reflectively,  rest- 
ing his  elhow  uf)on  the  table  and  his  chin  in 
tin;  hollow  of  his  hand. 

He  sat  fur  some  time  in  this  thoughtful  atti- 
tude, his  retainer,  Steete  llargraves,  watch- 
ing him  intently  all  the  while,  with  that  half 
wondering,  half  admiring  stare  with  which  a 
very  ugly  creature  —  a  creature  so  ugly  as  to 
know  it  is  ugly  —  looks  at  a  \i^Ty  handsome 
one. 

At  the  close  of  bis  reverie,  Mr.   Conyeri 


82 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


took  out  a  clumsy  silver  watch,  and  sat  for  a 
few  minutes  staring  vacantly  at  the  dial. 

"  Close  upon  six,"  he  muttered  at  last. 
"  What  time  do  they  dine  at  the  house, 
Steeve  ?" 

'*•  Seven  o'clock,"  answered  the  softy. 

"  Seven  o'clock.  Then  you  'd  have  time 
to  run  there  with  a  message,  or  a  letter,  and 
catch  'em  just  as  they  're  going  in  to  dinner." 

The  softy  stared  aghast  at  his  new  master. 

"A  message  or  a  letter,"  he  repeated,  "  for 
Mr.  Hellish  ?  " 

"No;  for  Mrs.  Mellish." 

"  But  I  dare  n't,"  exclaimed  Stephen  Har- 
jjraves;  "  I  dare  n't  go  nigh  the  house,  least  of 
all  to  speak  to  her.  I  don't  forget  tlie  day 
she  horsewhipped  me.  I  've  never  seen  her 
since,  and  I  don't  want  to  see  her.  You 
tliink  I  am  a  coward,  don't  'ee  ? "  he  said, 
stopping  suddenly,  and  looking  at  the  trainer, 
whose  handsome  lips  were  curved  into  a  con- 
temptuous smile.  "  You  think  I  'm  a  coward, 
don't  'ee,  now  ?"  he  repeated. 

"  Well.  I  do  n't  think  jou  are  over  valiant," 
answered  Mr.  Conyers,  "  to  be  afraid  of  a 
woman,  though  she  was  the  veriest  devil  that 
ever  played  fast  and  loose  with  a  man." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is  I  'm  afraid 
of  V"  said  Steeve  Hargraves,  hissing  the  words 
through  his  closed  teeth  in  that  unpleasant 
whisper  peculiar  to  him.  "  It  is  n't  Mrs. 
Mellish.  It 's  myself.  It^s  tJds" — he  grasped 
somethinjr  in  the  loose  pocket  of  his  trowsers 
as  he  spoke — "it  's  this.  I  'm  afraid  to  trust 
myself  anigh  her,  for  fear  I  should  spring  upon 
her,  and  cut  her  throat  from  ear  to  ear.  I  've 
seen  her  in  my  dreams  sometimes,  with  her 
beautiful  white  throat  laid  open,  and  stream- 
ing oceans  of  blood ;  but,  for  all  that,  she  's 
always  had  the  broken  whip  in  her  hand,  and 
she  's  always  laughed  at  roe.  I  've  had  many 
a  dream  about  her,  but  I  've  never  seen  her 
dead  or  quiet,  and  I  've  never  seen  her  with- 
out the  whip." 

The  contemptuous  smile  died  away  from 
the  trainers  lips  as  Steeve  Hargraves  made 
this  revelation  of  his  sentiments,  and  gave 
place  to  a  darkly  thoughtful  expression,  which 
overshadowed  the  whole  of  his  face. 

"  I  've  no  such  wonderful  love  for  Mrs. 
Mellish  myself,"  he  said  ;  "  but  she  might  live 
to  be  as  old  as  Methuselali  for  aught  Icare,  if 
she  'd"  —  he  muttered  something"  between  his 
teeth,  and  walked  up  the  little  staircase  to 
his  bedroom,  whistling  a  popular  tune  as  he 
went. 

He  came  down  again  with  a  dirty-look  in  or 
leather  desk  in  his  hand,  which  he  flung  ';are- 
l«6sly  on  to  the  table.  It  was  stuffed  with 
crumpled,  untidy-looking  letters  and  papers, 
from  among  which  he  had  considerable  diffi- 
culty in  selecting  a  tolerably  clean  sheet  of 
note-paper. 

"  You  '11  take  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Mellish,  my 
friend/*  he  said  to  Stephen,  stooping  over  the 


table  and  writing  as  he  spoke,  "  and  you  '11 
please  to  deliver  it  safeh'  into  her  own  hands. 
The  windows  will  ail  be  open  tliis  sultry 
weather,  and  you  can  watch  till  you  see  her 
in  the  drawing-room  ;  and  when  you  do,  con- 
trive to  beckon  her  out,  and  give  her  this." 

He  had  folded  the  sheet  of  paper  by  this 
time,  and  had  sealed  it  carefully  in  an  adhe- 
sive envelope. 

"  There  's  no  need  of  any  address,"  he  said, 
as  he  handed  the  letter  to  Steeve  Hargraves ; 
"  you  know  who  it  's  for,  and  you  won't  give 
it  to  anybody  else.  There,  get  along  with 
you.  She  '11  say  nothing  to  yon,  man,  when 
she  sees  who  the  letter  comes  from." 

The  softy  looked  darkly  at  his  new  employ- 
er; but  Mr.  James  Conyers  rather  piqued 
himself  upon  a  quality  which  he  called  deter- 
mination, but  Avhich  his  traducers  designated 
obstinacy,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  that  no 
one  but  Steeve  Hargraves  should  carry  the 
letter. 

"  Come,'"  he  said,  "  no  nonsense,  Mr.  Ste- 
phen. Remember  this :  if  I  choose  to  employ 
you,  and  if  I  choose  to  send  you  on  any  errand 
whatsoever,  there  's  no  one  in  that  house  will 
dare  to  question  my  right  to  do  it.  Get  along 
with  you." 

He  pointed  as  he  spoke,  with  the  stem  of 
his  pipe,  to  the  Gothic  root  and  ivied  chim- 
neys of  the  old  house  gleaming  among  a  mass 
of  foliage.  "  Get  along  with  you,  Mr.  Ste- 
phen, and  bring  me  an  answer  to  that  letter," 
he  added,  lighting  his  pipe,  and  seating  him- 
self in  his  favorite  attitude  upon  the  window- 
sill — an  attitude  which,  like  everything  about 
him,  was  a  half  careless,  half  defuuit  protest 
of  his  superiority  to  his  position.  "  You 
need  n't  wait  for  a  written  answer.  Yes  or 
no  will  be  quite  enough,  you  mav  tell  Mrs. 
Mellish." 

The  softy  whispered  something  half  inau- 
dible between  his  teeth ;  hut  he  took  the 
letter,  and,  pulling  his  shabby  rabbit-skin  cap 
over  his  eyes,  walked  slowly  off  in  the  direc- 
tion to  which  Mr.  Conyers  had  pointed,  with 
a  half  contemptuous  action,  a  few  moments 
before. 

"A  queer  fish,"  muttered  the  trainer,  lazily 
watching  the  awkward  figure  of  his  attend* 
ant;  "a  queer  fish;  but  it  's  j-ather  hard  if  I 
can't  manage  him.  I  've  twisted  his  betters 
round  my  little  finger  before  to-day." 

Mr.  Conyers  forgot  that  there  are  some 
natures  which,  although  inferior  in  everything 
else,  are  strong  by  reason  of  their  stubborn- 
ness, and  not  to  be  twisted  out  of  their  natu- 
ral crookedness  by  any  trick  of  management 
or  skilfulness  of  handling. 

The  evening  was  sunless,  but  sultry ;  there 
was  a  lowering  darkness  in  the  leaden  sky, 
and  an  unnatural  stillness  in  the  atmosphere 
that  prophesied  the  coming  of  a  storm.  The 
elements  were  taking  breath  for  the  struggle, 
and  lying  silently  in  wait  against  the  wreak- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


83 


mg  of  tboir  fury.  It.  wonld  come  by  and  by, 
the  signal  for  the  outburst,  in  a  lonfr,  cra^-k- 
ling  peal  of  thunder,  that  would  shake  the 
distant  hills  and  flutter  every  leaf  in  the 
wood. 

The  trainer  looked  with  an  indifferent  eye 
at  the  ominous  aspect  of  the  heavens.  "  I 
must  go  ilown  to  the  stables,  and  send  some  of 
the  boys  to  get  the  horses  under  shelter,"  he 
said;  "  there  'U  be  a  storm  before  long."  He 
took  his  stick  and  limped  out  of  the  cottage, 
still  smoking;  indeed,  there  were  very  few 
hours  in  the  day,  and  not  many  during  the 
night,  in  which  Mr.  Conycrs  was  unprovided 
with  his  pipe  or  cigar. 

Steeve  Hargraves  walked  very  slowly  along 
the  narrow  pathway  which  led  across  the  Park 
to  the  llower- garden  and  lawn  before  the 
house.  This  north  side  of  the  Park  was  wild- 
er and  less  well-kept  than  the  rest;  but  the 
thick  undergrowth  swarmed  with  game,  and 
the  young  hares  flew  backward  and  forward 
across  the  pathway,  startled  by  the  softy's 
shambling  tread,  while  every  now  and  thi-n 
the  partridges  rose  in  pairs  from  the  tangled 
grass,  and  skimmed  away  under  the  low  roof 
of  foliage. 

"  If  I  was  to  meet  Mr.  Mellish's  keeper 
here,  he  'd  look  at  me  black  enough,  I  dare 
say,"  muttered  the  softy,  "  though  I  a'n't  after 
tlie  game.  Looking  at  a  pheasant  's  high 
treason  in  his  mind,  curse  him." 

He  put  his  hands  low  down  in  his  pockets, 
as  if  scan^ely  able  to  resist  the  temjitation  to 
wring  the  neck  of  a  splendid  cock-pheasant 
tliat  was  strutting  througii  the  high  grass, 
with  a  proud  serenity  of  manner  that  implied 
a  knowledge  of  the  game-laws.  The  trees  on 
the  noith  side  of  the  Park  formed  a  species  of 
leafy  wall  which  screened  the  lawn,  so  that, 
coming  from  this  northern  side,  the  softy 
emerged  at  once  from  the  shelter  into  the 
.smooth  grass  bordering  this  lawn,  which  was 
separated  from  the  Park  by  an  invisible 
fence. 

As  Steove  Hargraves,  still  sheltered  from 
observation  by  the  trees,  approached  this 
place,  he  saw  that  his  errand  was  shortened, 
tor  Mrs.  Mellish  was  leaning  upon  a  low  iron 
gate,  with  the  dog  Bow-wow,  the  dog  that  he 
had  beatin,  at  her  side. 

He  had  left  the  narrow  pathway  and  struck 
in  among  the  undergrowth,  in  order  to  make 
a  shorter  «ut  to  the  flower-garden,  and  as 
he  eam<i  from  under  the  shelter  of  the  low 
branches  which  made  a  leafy  cave  about  him, 
he  left  a  long  track  of  parted  grass  behind 
him,  like  the  track  of  the  footstep  of  a  tiger, 
or  the  trail  of  a  slow,  pondorous  serpent  creep- 
ing toward  its  prey. 

Aurora  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  the  sham- 
bling footsteps,  ami,  for  the  second  time  since 
.she  had  beaten  him,  she  encouiit<'red  the  gaze 
of  the  softy.  She  wa.H  very  pale,  almost  as 
pale  as   her  white  dress,  which  was  unenli- 


I  vened  by  any  scrap  of  color,  and  which  hung 
]  about  her  in  loose  folds  that  gave  a  statuesque 
I  grace  to  her  figure.  She  was  dressetl  with 
I  such  evident  carelessness  that  every  fold  of 
I  muslin  seemed  to  tell  how  far  away  her 
I  thoughts  had  been  when  that  hasty  toilet  wo-- 
I  made.  Her  black  brows  contracted  as  she 
looked  at  the  softy. 

"I  thought  Mr.  Mellish  had  dismissed  you," 
she  said,  "  and  that  you  had  been  forbidden 
to  come  here." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  Muster  ATcllish  did  turn  mv 
out  of  the  house  I  d  lived  in,  man  and  boy, 
nigh  upon  forty  year,  but  T  've  got  a  new 
place  now,  and  my  new  master  sent  me  to  you 
with  a  letter." 

Watching  the  effect  of  his  words,  the  softy 
saw  a  leaden  change  come  over  the  pale  face 
of  his  listener. 

"  What  new  maste?  ?"  she  asked. 

Steeve  Hargraves  lifted  his  hand  and  point- 
ed across  his  slioulder.  She  watched  the  slow 
motion  of  that  clumsy  hand,  and  her  eyes 
seemed  to  jrrow  larger  as  she  saw  the  direction 
to  which  it  pointed. 

"  Your  new  master  is  the  trainer,  Jame  ■■ 
Conyers,  the  man  who  lives  at  the  nortli 
lodge  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  What  does  he  want,  with  you?"  she  asked. 

"  I  keep  his  place  in  order  for  him,  ma'am, 
and  run  errands  tor  him;  and  I  've  brought  u 
letter." 

"  A  letter  ?     Ah !  yes,  give  it  me." 

The  softy  handed  her  the  envelope.  She 
took  it  slowly,  without  removing  her  eye* 
from  his  face,  but  watching  him  with  a  fixed 
and  earnest  look  that  seemed  as  if  it  would 
have  fathomed  something  beneath  the  dull 
red  eyes  which  met  hers  —  a  look  that  be- 
trayed some  doubtful  terror  hidden  in  her 
own  breast,  and  a  vague  desire  to  penetrate 
the  secrets  of  his. 

She  did  not  look  at  the  letter,  but  held  it 
half  crushed  in  the  hand  hanging  by  her  side. 

"  You  can  go,"  she  said. 

"  I  was  to  wait  for  an  answer." 

The  black  brows  contracted  again,  and  thi" 
time  a  bright  gleam  of  fury  kind!"d  in  the 
great  black  eyes. 

"  There  is  no  answer,"  she  said,  thrusting 
the  letter  into  the  bosom  of  her  dres.s,  and 
turning  to  leave  the  gate;  "there  is  no  an- 
swer, and  tliere  shall  be  none  till  I  choose 
Tell  your  mast<'r  that." 

"  It  was  n't  to  be  a  written  an«wer,"  per 
si»ted   the   softy ;    "  it  was  to  lie   yes  or  no, 
that's  all ;  but  I  was  to  be  .-urc  and  wait  fo* 
it." 

The  half-witted  creature  saw  some  feelinr; 
of  hate  and  fury  in  her  face  beyond  lier  eon 
tcmptuous  hatred  of  himself,  and  took  s  saw 
age  pleasure  in  tormenting  her.     She  .struct 
her  foot  impatiently  upon  the  grass,  and,  pluck-, 
ing  the  letter  from  her  brea.st,  tore  open  thtr 


84 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


envelope,  and  read  the  tew  lines  it  contained. 
Few  as  they  were,  she  stood  for  nearly  iive 
vninutes  with  the  open  letter  in  her  hand, 
separated  from  the  softy  by  the  iron  fence, 
»nd  lost  in  thou«rht.  The  silence  was  only 
broken  during  this  pause  by  an  occasional 
growl  from  the  mastiff,  who  lifted  his  heavy  lip 
snd  showed  his  feeble  teeth  for  the  edification 
of  his  old  enemy. 

She  tore  the  letter  into  a  hundred  morsels, 
a.nd  ihiiig  it  from  her  before  she  spoke.  "  Yes," 
ahe  said  at  last;  "toll  your  master  that." 
■  Steeve  Hargraves  touched  his  can,  and  went 
back  tlirough  tiie  grassy  trail  he  had  left,  to 
carry  this  message  to  the  trainer. 

"  She  hates  me  bad  enough,"  he  muttered, 
?«  he  slopped  once  to  look  back  at  the  quiet 
white  figure  on  the  lajvn.  "  but  she  hates  him 
worse." 


CHAPTER  "XVIII. 

OUT    IN    THB    RAIN. 

The  second  dinner-bell  rang  five  minutes 
•iiU-r  the  sofly  had  lefl  Aurora,  and  Mr.  John 
Mellish  came  out  upon  the  lawn  to  look  for 
his  wife.  He  came  whistling  across  the  grass, 
and  whisking  the  roses  with  his  pocket-hand- 
kerchief in  very  gayety  of  heart.  He  had  quite 
forgotten  the  anguish  of  that  miserable  morn- 
ing after  the  receipt  of  Mr.  Pastern's  letter, 
lie  had  forgotten  all  but  that  his  Aurora  was 
t.he  loveliest  and  dearest  of  women,  and  that 
he  trusted  her  with  the  boundless  faith  of  his 
big,  honest  heart.  "  Why  should  I  doubt  such 
a  noble,  impetuous  creature  ?"  he  thought ; 
"  does  n't  every  feeling  and  every  sentiment 
write  itself  upon  her  lovely,  expressive  face 
ia  characters  the  veriest  fool  could  read  ?  If 
K  please  her,  what  bright  smiles  light  up  in 
her  black  eyes  !  If  I  ve.\  her — as  I  do,  poor 
awkward  idiot  that  I  am,  a  iiundred  times  a 
day — how  the  two  black  arches  contract  over 
ber  pretty  impertinent  nose,  while  the  red 
iips  pout  defiance  and  disdain  !  Shall  I  doubt 
her  because  she  keeps  one  secret  from  me, 
tnd  freely  tells  me  I  must  for  ever  remain  ig- 
norant of  it,  when  an  artful  Avoman  would 
try  to  set  my  mind  at  rest  with  some  shallow 
fiction  invented  to  deceive  me  ?  Heaven 
bless  her!  no  doubt  of  her  shall  ever  darken 
my  life  again,  come  what  may." 

It  was  easy  for  Mr.  Mellish  to  make  this 
mental  vow,  believing  fully  that  the  storm 
was  past,  and  that  lasting  fair  weather  had 
get  in. 

"  Lolly,  darling,"  he  said,  winding  his  great 
arm  round  his  wife's  waist,  "  I  thought  I  had 
kvst  you." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sad  smile. 

"  Would  it  grieve  you  much,  John,"  she 
•aid,  in  a  low  voice,  "  if  you  were  really  to 
lose  me  V" 


He  started  as  if  he  had  been  struck,  and 
looked  an.xiously  at  her  pale  face. 

"  Would  it  grieve  me,  Lolly !"  he  repeated; 
"  not  for  long ;  for  the  people  who  came  to 
your  funeral  would  come  to  mine.  But,  my 
darling,  my  darling,  what  can  have  made  you 
ask  this  question  ?  Are  you  ill,  dearest  ? 
You  have  been  looking  pale  and  tired  for  the 
last  few  days,  and  I  have  thought  nothing  of 
it.     What  a  careless  wretch  I  am !" 

''  No,  no,  John,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  meart 
that.  I  know  you  would  grieve  dear,  if  I 
were  to  die.  But  suppose  something  were  to 
happen  which  would  separate  us  for  ever — 
something  which  would  compel  me  to  leave 
this  place  never  to  return  to  it — what  then  ?" 

"  What  then,  Lolly  T'  answered  her  hus- 
band, gravely.  "I  would  rather  see  your 
coffin  laid  in  the  empty  niche  beside  my 
mother's  in  the  vault  yonder" — he  pointed  in 
the  direction  of  the  parish  church,  which  was 
close  to  the  gates  of  the  Park — "  than  I  would 
part  with  you  thus.  I  would  rather  know  you 
to  be  dead  and  happy  than  I  would  endure 
any  doubt  about  your  fate.  Oh,  my  darling, 
why  do  you  speak  of  \  hese  things  ?  I  could 
n't  part  with  you  —  I  could  n't.  I  would 
rather  take  you  in  my  arms  and  plunge  with 
you  into  the  pond  in  the  wood  ;  I  would  rather 
send  a  bullet  into  your  heart,  and  see  yon 
lying  murdered  at  my  feet." 

"John,  John,  my  deai'est  and  truest,"  she 
said,  her  face  lighting  up  with  a  new  bright- 
ness, like  the  sudden  breaking  of  the  sun 
through  a  leaden  cloud,  ''not  another  word, 
dear;  we  will  never  part.  Why  should  we  V 
There  is  very  little  upon  this  wide  earth  that 
money  can  not  buy,  and  it  shall  help  to  buy 
our  happiness.  We  will  never  part,  darling, 
never." 

She  broke  into  a  joyous  laugh  as  she 
watched  his  anxious,  half-wondering  face. 

"  Why,  you  foolish  John,  how  frightened 
you  look  !"  she  said.  "  Have  n't  you  discov- 
ered yet  that  I  like  to  torment  you  now  and 
then  with  such  questions  as  these,  just  to  see 
your  big  blue  eyes  open  to  their  Avidest  ex- 
tent ?  Come,  dear ;  Mrs.  Powell  will  look 
white  thunder  at  us  when  we  go  in,  and  make 
some  meek  conventional  reply  to  our  apolo- 
gies for  this  delay,  to  the  effect  that  she  does 
n't  care  in  the  least  how  long  she  waits  for 
dinner,  and  that,  on  the  whole,  she  would 
rather  never  have  any  dinner  at  all.  Is  n't  it 
strange,  John,  how  that  woman  hates  me  ?" 

"  Hates  you,  dear,  when  you  're  so  kind  to 
her !" 

"  But  she  hates  me  for  being  kind  to  her, 
John.  If  I  were  to  give  her  my  diamond 
necklace,  she  'd  hate  me  for  having  it  to  give. 
She  hates  us  because  we  're  rich,  and  young, 
and  handsome,"  said  Aurora,  laughing,  "  and 
the  very  opposite  of  her  namby-pamby,  pale- 
faced  self." 

It  was  sti'ange  that  from  this  moment  Au- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


8S 


rora  seempd  to  regain  her  natural  gayety  ot" 
spirits,  and  to  be  what  she  had  been  before 
the  receipt  of  Mr.  Pastern's  letter.  What- 
ever dark  cloud  liad  hovered  over  Iier  head 
since  the  day  upon  which  that  simple  epistle 
had  caused  such  a  terrible  effect,  that  threat- 
ening shadow  seemed  to  have  been  suddenly 
removed.  Mrs.  Walter  Powell  was  not  slow 
to  perceive  this  change.  Tlie  eyes  of  love, 
clear-sighted  though  they  may  be,  are  dull 
indeed  beside  tlie  eyes  of  hate.  Thoae  are 
never  deceived.  Aurora  had  wandered  out 
of  the  drawing-room.  listless  and  dispirited,  to 
stroll  wearily  upon  the  lawn  —  Mrs.  Powell, 
seated  in  one  of  tlie  windows,  had  watched 
her  every  movement,  and  liad  seen  her  in  the 
distance  speaking  to  some  one  (she  had  been 
unable  to  distinguish  the  softy  from  her  post 
of  observation)  —  and  this  same  Aurora  re- 
turned to  the  liouse  almost  another  creature. 
There  was  a  look  of  determination  about  the 
beautiful  mouth  (which  female  critics  called 
too  wide),  a  look  not  usual  to  the  rosy  lips, 
and  a  resolute  brightness  in  the  eyes,  which 
had  .«ome  significance  surely.  Mrs.  Powell 
thought,  if  she  could  only  have  found  the  key 
to  that  liidden  meaning.  Ever  since  Aurora's 
brief  illness  the  poor  woman  had  been  grop- 
ing for  this  key  —  groping  in  mazy  darknesses 
which  baflled  her  utmost  powers  of  penetra- 
tion. Who  and  what  was  this  groom,  that 
Aurora  should  write  to  him,  as  she  most  de- 
cidedly had  written  ?  Why  was  he  to  express 
no  surprise,  and  what  cause  could  there  be 
for  his  expressing  any  surprise  in  the  simple 
economy  of  Mellish  Park  ?  The  mazy  dai-k- 
nesses  were  more  impenetrable  than  the  black- 
est night,  and  Mrs.  Powell  wellnigh  gave  up 
all  hope  of  ever  finding  any  clew  to  the  mys- 
tery. And  now,  behold,  a  new  complication 
had  arisen  in  Aiirora's  altei-ed  spirits.  John 
Mellish  was  delijhted  with  this  alteration. 
He  talked  aud  laughed  until  the  glasses  near 
him  vibrated  with  his  noisy  mirth.  He  drank 
so  nuich  sparkling  ISIoselle  that  his  butler 
Jarvis  (who  had  grown  gray  in  the  service  of 
the  old  squire,  and  had  poured  out  Master 
John's  first  glass  of  Champagne)  refused  at 
last  to  furnish  him  with  any  more  of  that 
beverage,  ofTeriilg  him  in  its  .siead  some  very 
expensive  Hock,  the  name  of  which  was  in 
fourteen  unpronounceable  syllables,  and  which 
John  tried  to  like,  but  did  n't. 

''  We  'II  fill  the  house  with  visitors  for  the 
shooting -season,  Lolly,  darling,"  said  Mr. 
Mellish.  "  If  thev  come  on  the  first  of  Sep- 
tember, they  '11  ail  be  comfortably  settled  for 
the  Leger.  Tin-  dear  old  dad  will  come  of 
conrst^  ami  trot  about  on  his  whit<'  pony  like 
the  best  of  men  and  bankers  in  Christendom. 
Captain  and  .Mrs.  Bulstrode  will  come  too; 
and  we  shall  see  how  our  little  I^ucy  looks, 
and  whether  solemn  Talbot  beats  her  in  the 
silencer  of  the  matrimonial  chamber.  Then 
there  's  Hunter,  and  a  host  of  fellows;  and 


you  must  write  me  a  list  of  any  nice  people 
you  'd  like  to  ask  down  here,  and  we  'II  have 
a  glorious  autumn — won't  we,  Lolly  'i*" 

"  I  hope  so,  dear, "  said  Mrs.  Mellish,  afler 
a  little  pause,  and  a  repetition  of  John':* 
eager  (question.  She  had  not  been  listening 
very  attentively  to  John's  plans  for  the  fu- 
ture, and  she  startled  him  rather  by  askiug 
him  a  tjuestion  very  wide  from  the  subject 
upon  which  he  had  been  speaking. 

"  How  long  do  the  fastest  vessels  take  going 
to  Australia,  John  V"  she  asked,  (juietly. 

Mr.  Mellish  stopped  with  his  glass  in  his 
hand  to  stare  at  his  wife  as  she  asked  this 
question. 

"  How  long  do  the  fastest  vessels  take  X« 
go  to  Australia  V"  ln'  repeated.  "  Good  gra- 
cious  me,  Lolly,  how  should  I  know  V  Throe 
weeks  or  a  month — no,  I  mean  three  months; 
but,  in  mercy's  name,  Aurora,  why  do  you 
want  to  know  ?" 

"  The  average  length  of  the  voyage  is,  1 
believe,  about  three  months;  but  some  fasV 
sailing  packets  do  it  in  seventy,  or  even  in 
sixty -eight  days,"  interposed  Mrs.  Powell, 
looking  sharply  at  Aurora's  abstracted  face 
from  under  cover  of  her  white  eyelashes. 

■'  But  why,  in  goodness  name,  do  you  want 
to  know,  Lolly  V"  repeated  John  Mellish. 
'*  You  don't  want  to  go  to  Australia,  and  you 
don't  know  anybod}*  who  's  going  to  Au»- 
tralia  ?" 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Mellish  is  interested  in  the 
Female  Emigration  movement, '  suggested 
Mrs.  Powell  :  "  it  is  a  most  delightful  work." 

Aurora  replied  neither  to  the  <lirect  nor 
the  indirect  question.  The  cloth  had  be*n 
removed  (for  no  modern  customs  had  ever 
disturbed  the  conservative  economy  of  Mei- 
lish  Park),  and  Mrs.  Mellish  sat,  with  a  clus- 
ter of  pale  cherries  in  her  hand,  looking  at 
the  reflection  of  her  own  face  in  the  depths 
of  the  shining  mahogany. 

"  Lolly  !"  exclaimed  John  Mellish,  af\er 
watching  his  wife  for  some  minutes,  "you 
are  as  grave  as  a  judge.  What  can  you  b»' 
thinking  ofV" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  bright  Mnilt. 
and  rose  to  leave  the  dining-room. 

"  I  'II  tell  you  one  of  these  days,  John," 
she  said.  "  .\re  you  coming  with  us.  or  are 
30U  going  out  upon  the  lawn  to  smoke  V" 

"  If  you  'II  comt-  with  me.  dear,"  he  an 
swered,  returning  her  smile  with  a  franl^ 
glance  of  unchangeable  aflc  tion,  which  al- 
ways beamed  in  his  eyes  when  they  rested  on 
his  wife.  "  I  'II  go  out  and  >moke  a  cigar  if 
you  'II  come  with  me,  Lolly." 

"You  foolish  old  Yorksiiireinan,"  said  Mr.v 
Mellish,  laughing,  "  I  verily  believe  you  'd 
like  me  to  smoke  one  of  your  choice  Manillao, 
by  way  of  keeping  you  company. ' 

"  No,  darling,  I  'd  never  wish  to  see  you  do 
anythins  that  did  n't  sfiuare  —  that  wa.s  n't 
compatible,'   interpose«l  Mr.  MellisK  gravely, 


86 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


"  with  the  manners  of  the  noblest  lady,  and 
the  duties  of  the  truest  wife  in  England.  If 
I  love  to  see  you  ride  across  conntry  with  a 
red  feather  in  your  hat,  it  is  becciuse  I  think 
that  the  good  old  sport  of  English  gentlemen 
was  meant  to  be  shared  by  their  wives  rather 
than  bv  people  whom  I  would  not  like  to  name, 
and  because  there  is  a  fair  chance  that  the 
.•iio-ht  of  your  Spanish  hat  and  scarlet  plume 
«t  the  meet  may  go  some  way  toward  keeping 
Miss  Wilhelmina  de  Lanny  (who  was  born 
plain  Scroggins,  and  christened  Sarah)  out 
of  the  field.  I  think  our  British  wives  and 
mothers  might  have  the  battle  in  their  own 
hands,  and  win  the  victory  for  themselves  and 
their  daughters,  if  they  were  a  little  braver 
in  standing  to  their  ground — if  they  were  not 
quite  so  tenderly  indulgent  to  the  sins  of  eli- 
gible young  noblemen,  and,  in  their  estimate 
of  a  man's  qualifications  for  the  marriage 
state,  were  not  so  entirely  guided  by  the 
figures  in  his  banker's  book.  It 's  a  sad  world, 
Lolly,  but  John  Mellish,  of  Mellish  Park,  was 
never  meant  to  set  it  right." 

Mr.  Mellish  stood  on  the  threshold  of  a 
glass  door  which  opened  to  a  flight  of  steps 
leading  to  the  lawn  as  he  delivered  himself  of 
this  homily,  the  gravity  of  which  was  quite  at 
variance  with  the  usual  tenor  of  his  discourse. 
rie  had  a  cigar  in  his  hand,  and  was  going  to 
light  it,  when  Aurora  stopped  him. 

"  John,  dear,"  she  said,  "  my  most  unbusi- 
ness-like  of  darlings,  have  you  forgotten  that 
poor  Langley  is  so  anxious  to  see  you,  that  he 
may  give  up  your  old  accounts  before  the  new 
trainer  takes  the  stable  inislness  into  his 
hands  ?  He  was  here  half  an  hour  before 
(Jinner,  and  begged  that  you  would  see  him 
to-night." 

Mr.  Mellish  slirugged  his  shoulders. 
"*  Langley  's  as  honest  a  fellow  as  ever 
hieathed,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  want  to  look 
into  his  accounts.  I  know  what  the  stable 
xiosts  me  yearly  on  an  average,  and  that  's 
enough." 

"  But  for  his  satisfaction,  dear." 
"  Well,    well,    Lolly,    to-morrow    morning, 
then." 

"  No,  dear,  I  want  you  to  ride  out  with  me 
to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  evening." 
'•  'You  meet  the  captains  at  the  Citadel,'" 
sAid  Aurora,  laugliing ;  "  tliat  is  to  say,  you 
dine  at  Hoimbush  with  Colonel  Pevensey. 
Come,  darling,  I  insist  ou'  your  being  business- 
like for  once  in  a  way;  come  to  your  scmctvm 
aanctorum,  and  we  '11  send  for  Langley,  and 
look  into  the  accounts." 

The  pretty  tyrant  linked  her  arm  in  his, 
and  led  him  to  the  other  end  of  the  house, 
;!,nd  into  the  very  room  in  which  she  had 
Kwooned  away  at  the  hearing  of  Mr.  Pastern's 
letter.  She  looked  thoughtfully  out  at  the 
dull  evening  sky  as  she  closed  the  windows. 
The  storm  had  not  yet  come,  but  the  ominous 


clouds  still  brooded  low  over  the  earth,  and 
the  sultry  atmosphere  was  heavy  and  airless. 
Mrs.  Mellish  made  a  wonderful  show  of  her 
business  habits,  and  appeared  to  be  very  much 
interested  in  the  mass  of  corn-chandlers',  vet- 
erinary surgeons',  saddlers',  and  harness-mak- 
ers' accounts  with  which  the  old  trainer  re- 
spectfully bewildered  his  master.  But  about 
ten  minutes  after  John  had  settled  himself  to 
his  weary  labor  Aurora  threw  down  the  pen- 
cil with  which  she  had  been  woi'king  a  calcu- 
lation (by  a  process  of  so  wildly  original  a 
nature  as  to  utterly  revolutionize  Cocker,  and 
annihilate  the  hackneyed  notion  that  twice 
two  are  four),  and^fioated  lightly  out  of  the 
room,  with  some  Vague  promise  of  coming 
back  presently,  leaving  Mr.  Mellish  to  arith- 
metic and  despair. 

Mrs.  Walter  Powell  was  seated  in  the  draw- 
ing-room reading  when  Aurora  entered  the 
apartment  with  a  large  black  lace  shawl 
wrapped  about  her  head  and  shoulders.  Mrs. 
Mellish  had  evidently  e.xpected  to  find  the 
room  empty,  for  she  started  and  drew  back  at 
the  sight  of  the  pale-faced  widow,  who  Avas 
seated  in  a  dist;tnt  window,  making  the  most 
of  the  last  faint  rays  of  summer  twilight. 
Aurora  paused  for  a  moment  a  few  paces 
within  the  door,  and  then  walked  deliberately 
across  the  room  toward  the  farthest  window 
from  that  at  whi^h  Mrs.  Powell  was  seated. 

"  Are  you  going  out  in  the  garden  this  dull 
evening,  Mrs.  Mellish  ?"  asked  the  ensign's 
widow. 

Aurora  stopped  half  way  between  the  win- 
dow and  the  door  to  answer  her. 
"  Yes,"  she  said  coldly. 
"Allow  me  to  advise  you  not  to  go  far.    We 
are  going  to  have  a  storm." 
"  I  don't  think  so." 

"  What,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mellish,  not  with 
that  thunder-cloud  yonder  V" 

"  I  will  take  my  chance  of  being  caught  in 
it,  then.  The  weather  has  been  threatening 
all  the  afternoon.  The  house  is  insupportable 
to-night." 

"  But  you  will  not  surely  go  far  ?" 
Mrs.  Mellish  did  not  appear  to  overhear  this 
remonstrance.  She  hurried  thiough  the  open 
window,  and  out  upon  the  lawn,  striking 
northward  toward  that  little  iron  gate  across 
which  she  had  talked  to  the  softy. 

The  arch  of  the  leaden  sky  seemed  to  con- 
tract above  the  tree-tops  in  the  Park,  shutting 
in  the  earth  as  if  with  a  roof  of  hot  iron,  after 
the  fashion  of  those  cunningly  contrived  metal 
torture-chambers  w^hich  we  read  of;  but  the 
rain  had  not  yet  come. 

"  What  can  take  her  into  the  garden  on 
such  an  evening  as  this  V"  thought  Mrs.  Pow- 
ell, as  she  watched  the  white  dress  receding 
in  the  dusky  twilight.  "  It  will  be  dark  in 
ten  minutes,  and  she  is  not  usually  so  fond  of 
going  out  alone." 

The  ensign's  widow  laid  down  the  book  in 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


87 


which  she  had  appeared  so  deeply  interested, 
tind  went  to  her  own  room,  where  she  select- 
ed a  comfortable  gray  cloak  from  a  heap  of 
primly-foldod  garments  in  her  capacious  ward- 
robe. She  muffled  herself  in  this  cloak,  hur- 
ried down  sUurs  with  a  soft  but  rapid  step, 
and  wont  out  into  the  garden  through  a  little 
lobby  near  John  Mellish's  room.  The  blinds 
in  the  little  sanctum  were  not  drawn  down, 
and  Mrs.  Powell  could  see  the  master  of  the 
house  betiding  over  his  paper  under  the  liglit 
of  a  reading-lamp,  with  the  rheumatic  trainer 
sitting  by  his  side.  It  was  by  this  time  quite 
dark,  but  Aurora's  white  dress  was  faintly 
visible  upon  the  other  side  of  the  lawn. 

Mrs.  Mellish  was  standing  beside  the  little 
iron  gate  when  the  ensign's  widow  emerged 
from  the  house.  Tiie  white  (b-ess  was  motion- 
less for  some  time,  and  the  pale  watcher,  lurk- 
ing under  thi-  shade  of  a  long  veranda,  began 
to  think  that  her  trouble  was  wasted,  and 
tliat  perhaps,  after  all,  Aurora  had  no  special 
purpose  in  this  ev<'ning  ramble. 

Mrs.  Walter  Powell  felt  cruelly  disappoint- 
ed. Always  on  the  watch  for  some  deiv  to 
the  secret  whose  existence  she  hail  discovered, 
she  had  fondly  hoped  that  even  this  unsea- 
sonable ramble  might  be  some  link  in  the 
mysttirious  chain  she  was  so  anxious  to  fit  to- 
gether. But  it  appeared  that  slie  was  mis- 
taken. The  unseasonable  ramble  ivas  very 
likely  nothing  more  than  one  of  Aurora's 
(  aprices  —  a  womanly  foolishness  signifying 
nothing. 

No !  The  white  dress  was  no  longer  mo- 
tionless, and  in  the  unnatural  stillness  of  the 
hot  night  Mrs.  Powell  heard  the  distant, 
^crooping  noise  of  a  hinge  revolving  slowly, 
as  if  guided  by  a  cautious  hand.  Mrs.  Mel- 
lish had  o]>ctu'd  the  iron  gate,  and  had  passed 
to  the  other  side  of  the  invisible  barrier  which 
.separated  the  gardens  from  the  Park.  In 
another  moment  she  had  disappeared  under 
the  shadow  of  the  trees  which  made  a  belt 
a!)Out  the  lawn. 

Mrs.  Powell  paused,  almost  terrified  by  her 
unlooked-for  discovery. 

What,  in  the  name  of  all  that  was  darkly 
mysterious,  could  Mrs.  Mellish  have  to  do  be- 
tween nine  and  ten  o'clock  on  the  north  yidc 
of  the  Park  —  tlie  wildly-kept,  ileserted  north 
.side,  in  whicli,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end, 
no  one  but  the  keepers  ever  walked. 

The  blooil  rushed  hotly  u]>  to  Mrs.  Powell's 
pah'  face  as  she  suddenly  remembered  that  the 
disused,  dilapidated  lodge  upon  this  north  side 
had  been  u'iven  to  the  new  trainer  as  a  resi- 
lience. Rememl)ering  this  was  nothing,  but 
remenilx-ring  this  in  connection  with  that 
mysterious  letter  signed  "A"  was  enough  to 
send  a  thrill  of  savage,  horrible  joy  through 
the  dull  veins  of  the  dependent.  What  should 
she  doV  Follow  Mrs.  Mellish,  and  discover 
where  she  was  going?  How  far  would  this  be 
a  safe  thing  to  attempt? 


She  turned  back  and  looked  once  more 
through  the  windows  of  John's  room.  He 
was  still  bending  over  the  papers,  still  in  an  ap- 
parently hopeless  confusion  of  mind.  There 
seemed  little  chance  of  his  business  being  fin- 
ished very  quickly.  The  starless  night  an<i 
her  dark  dress  alike  sheltered  the  spy  from 
observation. 

"  If  I  were  close  behind  her,  she  would 
never  see  me,"  she  thought. 

She  struck  across  the  lawn  to  the  iron  gate, 
and  passed  into  the  Park.  The  brambles  and 
the  tangled  undergiowth  caught  at  her  dress 
as  she  paused  for  a  moment  looking  about  her 
in  the  summer  night. 

There  was  no  trace  of  Aurora's  white  figure 
aniong  the  leafy  alleys  stretching  in  wild  dis- 
order before  her. 

"  I  '11  not  attempt  to  find  the  path  she  took," 
thought  Mrs.  Powell;  "I  know  where  to  find 
her." 

She  groped  her  way  into  the  narrow  foot- 
path leading  to  the  lodge.  She  was  not  suffi- 
ciently familiar  with  the  place  to  take  the 
short  cut  which  the  softy  had  made  for  him- 
self through  the  grass  that  afternoon,  and 
she  was  some  time  Avalking  from  the  iron  gate 
to  the  lodge. 

The  front  windows  of  this  rustic  lodge 
faced  the  road  and  the  disused  north  gate.^  ; 
the  back  of  the  building  looked  toward  the 
path  down  which  Mrs.  Powell  went,  and  the 
two  small  windows  in  this  back  wall  were 
both  dark. 

The  ensign's  widow  crept  softly  round  to 
the  front,  looked  about  her  cautiously,  and 
listened.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  occa- 
sional rustle  of  a  leaf,  tremulous  even  in  the  still 
atmosphere,  as  if  by  some  internal  prescience 
of  the  coming  storm.  With  a  slow,  careful 
footstep,  she  stole  toward  the  little  rustic  win- 
dow, and  looked  into  the  room  within. 

She  had  not  been  mistaken  when  she  had 
said  that  she  knew  where  to  find  Aurora. 

Mrs.  Mellish  was  standing  with  her  back  to 
the  window.  Exactly  oppo.slte  to  her  sat 
James  Conyers,  the  trainer,  in  an  easy  atti- 
tude, and  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth.  The 
little  table  was  between  them,  and  the  one 
candle  whicli  lighted  the  room  was  drawn 
dose  to  Mr.  Conyers'  elbow,  and  had  evidont- 
Iv  been  used  by  him  for  ^e  lighting  of  his 
pipe.  Aurora  was  speaking.  The  eager  list- 
ener could  hear  her  voice,  but  not  her  words; 
and  she  could  .see  by  the  trainer's  face  that  he 
was  listening  intently.  lie  was  listening  in- 
tently; but  a  dark  frown  contracted  his  hand- 
.some  eyebrows,  and  it  was  very  evident  that 
he  was  not  too  well  satisfied  with  the  bent  of 
the  conversation. 

lie  looked  up  when  Aurora  ceased  speak- 
ing, shruiTged  his  shoulders,  and  took  his  pipe 
out  of  his  mouth.  Mrs.  Powell,  with  her  pale 
face  close  against  the  window-pane,  watched 
him  intently. 


88 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


He  pointed  with  a  careless  gesture  to  an 
empty  chair  near  Aurora,  but  she  shook  her 
head  contemptuously,  and  suddenly  turned 
toward  the  window ;  so  suddenly  that  Mrs. 
Powell  had  scarcely  time  to  recoil  into  the 
darkness  before  Aurora  had  unfastened  the 
iron  latch  and  flung  the  narrow  casement 
open. 

"lean  not  endure  this  intolerable  heat," 
she  exclaimed,  impatiently;  "I  have  said  all 
I  have  to  say,  and  need  only  wait  for  your 
answer." 

"  You  don't  give  me  much  time  for  consid- 
eration," he  said,  with  an  insolent  coolness 
which  was  in  strange  contrast  to  the  restless 
vehemence  of  her  manner.  "  What  sort  of 
answer  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Yes  or  no." 

"Nothing  more?" 

"  No,  nothing  more.  You  know  my  condi- 
tions ;  they  are  all  written  here,"  she  added, 
putting  her  hand  upon  an  open  paper  which 
lay  upon  the  table;  "they  are  all  Avritten 
clearly  enough  for  a  child  to  understand. 
Will  you  accej)t  them  V     Yes  or  no  ?" 

"  That  depends  upon  circum.stances,"  he 
answered,  filling  his  pipe,  and  looking  admir- 
ingly at  the  nail  of  his  little  finger  as  he 
pressed  the  tobacco  into  the  bowl. 

"  Upon  what  circumstances  ?" 

"  Upon  the  inilu<;ement  which  you  ofter, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Mellish." 

"  You  mean  the  price  ?" 

"  That  's  a  low  expression,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing; "but  I  suppose  we  both  mean  the  same 
thing.  The  inducement  must  be  a  strong  one 
which  will  make  me  do  all  that" — he  pointed 
to  the  written  paper  —  "and  it  must  take 
the  form  of  solid  cash.  How  much  is  it  to 
be?" 

"  That  is  for  you  to  say.  Remember  what 
I  have  told  you.  Decline  to-night,  and  I  tele- 
graph to  my  father  to-morrow  morning,  telling 
him  to  alter  his  will." 

"  Suppose  the  old  gentleman  should  be  car- 
ried off  In  the  interim,  and  leave  that  pleasant 
sheet  of  parchment  standing  as  it  Is.  I  hear 
that  he  's  old  and  feeble ;  it  might  be  worth 
•while  calculating  the  odds  upon  such  an  event. 
1  've  risked  my  money  on  a  worst  chance  be- 
fore to-night." 

She  turned  upon  him  with  so  dark  a  frown 
as  he  said  this  that  the  insolently  heartless 
words  died  upon  his  lips,  and  left  him  looklno- 
at  her  gravely. 

"  Egad,"  he  said,  "  you  're  as  great  a  devil 
as  ever  you  were.  I  doubt  if  that  Is  n't  a 
good  offer  after  all.  Give  me  ten  thousand 
down,  and  I  '11  take  it." 

"  Ten  thousand  pounds  !" 

"  I  ought  to  have  said  twenty,  but  I  've  al- 
ways stood  In  my  own  light." 

Mrs.  Powell,  crouching  down  beneath  the 
open  casement,  had  heard  every  word  of  tliis 
brief  dialogue ;  but  at  thi.s  juncture,  half-for- 


getful of  all  danger  in  her  eagernes,s  to  li.ston, 
she  raised  her  head  until  it  was  nearly  on  a 
level  with  the  window-sill.  As  she  did  so, 
she  recoiled  with  a  sudden  thrill  of  terror. 
She  felt  a  puff  of  hot  breath  upon  her  cheek, 
and  the  garments  of  a  man  rustling  against 
her  own. 

She  was  not  the  only  listener. 

The  second  spy  was  Stephen  Hargraves, 
the  softy. 

"  Hush ! "  he  whispered,  grasping  Mrs. 
Powell  by  the  wrist,  and  pinning  her  In  her 
crouching  attitude  by  the  muscular  force  of 
his  horny  hand  ;  "  It  's  only  me,  Steeve  the 
Softy,  you  know;  the  stable-helper  that  she" 
(he  hissed  out  the  personal  pronoun  with  such 
a  furious  impetus  that  It  seemed  to  whistlo 
sharply  through  the  stillness)  —  "  the  fondy 
that  she  horsewhipped.  I  know  you,  and  I 
know  you  're  here  to  listen.  He  sent  me  into 
Doncaster  to  fetch  this  '  (he  pointed  to  a  bot- 
tle under  his  arm);  "ho  thought  it  would 
take  me  four  or  five  hours  to  go  and  get  back  ; 
but  I  ran  all  the  way,  for  I  knew  there  wa*^ 
summat  oop." 

He  wiped  his  streaming  face  with  the  ends 
of  his  coarse  neckerchief  as  he  finished 
speaking.  His  breath  came  in  panting  gasp?, 
and  Mrs.  Powell  could  hear  the  laborious 
beating  of  his  heart  In  the  stillness. 

"  I  won't  tell  o'  you,"  h<;  said,  "  and  you 
won't  tell  o'  me.  I  've  got  the  stripes  upon 
my  shoulder  where  she  cut  me  with  the  whip 
to  this  day ;  I  look  at  'm  sometimes,  and  they 
help  to  keep  mo  In  mind.  She  's  a  fine  madam, 
a'n't  she,  and  a  great  lady  too?  Ay,  sure  sh>' 
is ;  but  she  comes  to  meet  her  husband's  ser- 
vant on  the  sly,  atler  dark,  lor  all  that.  May- 
be the  daj-  is  n't  far  off  when  she  '11  b(!  turned 
away  from  these  gates,  and  warned  off  thi^ 
ground,  and  the  merciful  Lord  send  that  I 
live  to  see  it.     Hush  !" 

With  her  wri.st  still  pinioned  In  his  strong 
grasp,  he  motioned  her  to  be  silent,  and  bent 
his  pale  face  forward,  every  feature  rigid  in 
the  listening  expectancy  of  his  huugiy  gaze. 

"  Listen,"  he  whispered  ;  "  listen  !  Every 
fresh  word  damns  her  deeper  tlian  the  last." 

The  trainer  was  the  first  to  speak  atler  this 
pause  In  the  dialogue  within  the  cottage.  He 
had  quietly  smoked  out  his  pipe,  and  had 
emptied  the  ashes  of  his  tobacco  upon  the 
table  before  he  took  up  the  thread  of  the 
conversation  at  the  point  at  which  he  bad 
dropped  it. 

"  Ten  thousand  pounds,"  he  said  ;  "  that  is 
the  offer,  and  I  think  it  ought  to  be  taken 
freely.  Ten  thousand  down,  in  Bank  of 
England  notes  (fives  and  tens ;  liigher  figures 
might  be  awkward),  or  sterling  coin  of  the 
realm.  You  understand ;  ten  thousand  down. 
That  's  my  alternative  ;  or  I  leave  this  plaoc 
to-morrow  morning,  with  all  belonging  to  me."' 

"  By  which  course  you  would  get  nothing," 
said  Mrs.  John  Mellish.  quietly. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


89 


"  Should  n't  I  ?     What  rioes  the   chap  m  j 
the  play  ffct  for  his  trouble  when  the  blaoka-  i 
moor  smothers  his  wife  ?     I  should  get  noth- 
inrr-but  my  revenjre  upon  a  tiger-cat  whose 
claws  have  left  a  mark  upon  me  that  I  sha  I 
rarry  t^  mv  -rave."     Me  lifted  his  hair  with 
a  careless  ic^.ture  of  his  hand,  and  pointed  to 
a  scar  upon   his  forehead  -  a  white    mark, 
barely  visible  in  the  dim  light  of  the  tallow- 
candle.     "I  'm  a   good-natured    easy-going 
fellow,  Mrs.  John  Hellish,  but  I  don  I  forget.  I 
Is  it  to  be  the  ten  thousand  pounds,  or  war  to  , 

the  knife?"  ,     />       .  •    : 

Mr^.   Powell   waited   eagerly  for   Aurora  s 
answer  ;  but  before  it   came  a  round,  heavy  j 
rain-drop  j.attered  upon  the  light  hair  ot  the 
ensi-n's  widow.     Tlie  hood  of  her  cloak  had  , 
falkMi    back,    leaving    her   head    uncovered., 
This  one  large  drop  was  the  warning  ot  the  i 
comin-T  storm.     The  signal  peal  ot    thunder  , 
rumbled  slowlv  and  hoarsely  in  the  distance, 
and  a  pale  ilasli  of  liglitning  trembled  upon 
the  white  faces  of  the  two  listeners. 

"  Let  me  tr->,"  whispered  Mrs.  Powell,  "let 
me  go;  T  miist  get  back  to  the  house  before 
the  rain  bc<;ins." 

The  softy  slowlv  relaxed  his  iron  grip  upon 
her  wrist.  He  had  held  it  unconsciously  in 
hi.s  utter  abstraction  to  all  things  except  the 
two  speakers  in  the  cottage. 

Mrs.  Powell  rose  from  her  knees,  and  crept 
noiselessly  awav  from  the  lodge.    She  remem-  ^ 
bered  the  vital  necessity  of  getting  back  to  , 
the  house  bef(n-e  Aurora,  and  of  avoiding  the 
shower.     Her  wet  sarmcnts  would  betray  her  , 
if  she  did  not  succeed  in  escaping  the  coming  , 
storm.     She  was  of  spare,  wizen  figure,  en- 
cumbered with  no  superfluous  flesh,  and  she 
ran  rapi<liv  alona  the  narrow  sheltered  path-  1 
way  leading  to  the  iron  gate  through  which 
she'  had  followed  Aurora- 

Tlie  heavv  rain-drops  fell  at  long  intervals 
upon  the  leaves.  A  second  and  a  third  peal 
of  thunder  rattled  along  tiie  earth  like  the 
horrible  roar  of  some  hungry  animal  creeping 
nearer  and  nearer  to  its  prey.  Blue  flashes 
of  faint  lightning  lit  up  the  tangled  intiicacies 
of  the  wood,  but  the  iullest  fury  of  the  storm 
had  not  vet  burst  forth. 

The  rain-drops  caine  at  shorter  intervals  as 
Mrs.  Powell  passe(i  out  of  the  wood,  throiigh 
the  little  iron  crate ;  faster  still  as  she  hurried 
across  the  lawn  ;  faster  vet  as  she  reache<l  the 
lobbv-door.  which  she  ha<l  left  ajar  an  hour 
before,  and  sat  down  panting  upon  a  little 
bench  witliin,  to  recover  her  breath  before  she 
went  anv  farther.  She  was  still  sitting  on 
this  bench,  wlien  the  fourth  peal  of  thunder 
shook  the  low  roof  above  her  head,  and  the 
rain  .Iroppcd  from  the  starless  sky  with  su.h 
a  rushing  impetus  that  it  seemed  as  it  a  huge 
trap-door  had  been  opened  in  the  heavens,  ami 
a  celestial  ocean  let  down  to  flood  the  earth.  _^ 

"  1  think  mv  lady  will  be  ni.ely  caught, 
muttered  Mrs.  "Walter  Powell. 


She  threw  her  cloak  aside  upon  the  lobby- 
bench,  and  went  through  a  passage  leading  to 
the  hall.  One  of  the  servants  was  shutting 
the  hall-door. 

"  Have  you  shut  the  drawing-room  win- 
dows. Wilson?"  she  asked.  . 
"  No,  ma'am ;  I  am  afraid  Mrs.  Mellish  is 
out  in  the  rain.  Jarvis  is  getting  ready  to  go 
and  look  for  her,  with  a  lantern  and  the  gig- 
umbrella."                                                 .      .., 

"  Then  Jarvis  can  stop  where  he  is  ;  Mrs. 
Mellish  came  in  half  an  hour  ago.  You  may 
shut  all  the  windows,  and  close  the  house  for 
the  night." 

i      "  Yes,  ma'am."  , 

;      "  By  the  by,  what  o'clock  is  it,  \\  dson  .■' 
j  Mv  watch  is  slow."  . 

!      ■"  A  quarter  past  ten,  ma'am,  by  the  dining- 
1  room  clock." 

The  man  locked  the  hall-door,  and  put  up 
1  an  immense  iron  bar.  which  worketl  with  some 
1  rather  complicated  machinery,  and  had  a  bell 
I  han.-ing  at  one  end  of  it,  for  the  t^rustration 
I  of  all  burglarious  and  designing  rulnans. 

From  the  hall  the  man  went  to  th.;  draw- 
I  in<T-room,  where  he  carefully  fastened  the 
lon^  rantie  of  windows  ;  from  the  drawing- 
room  to  the  lobbv  ;  and  from  the  lobby  to  the 
dinin-r-room.  where  he  locked  the  halt-glass 
door  openim;  into  the  garden.  This  being 
done,  all  communication  between  the  house 
and  the  garden  was  securely  cut  oflT. 

"  He  shall  know  of  her  goings  on,  at  any 
rate."  thou<rht  Mrs.  Powell,  as  she  dogged  tbe 
footsteps  of  the  servant  to  see  that  he  did  his 
work  The  Mellish  household  did  not  take 
verv  kindlv  to  this  deputy  mistress;  and  when 
I  the"footman  went  back  to  the  servants  hall, 
he  informed  his  colleagues  that  shk  was  pry- 
in'  and  pokin'  about  sharper  than  hever,  and 
watchin'  of  a  feller  like  a  hold  'ouse-cat.  Mr. 
Wilson  was  a  Cockney,  and  had  been  newly 
imported  into  the  e.stablishnient. 

When  the  ensign's  widow  had  seen  the   ast 
bolt  driven  home  to  its  socket,  and  the  last 
key  turned  in  its  lock,  she  went  back  to  the 
drawin-room  and  seated  herself  at  the  lamp- 
ilit  talde,  with   some   delicate   morsel  ot    oia- 
maidisli  fancv-work,  which  seemed  to  be  the 
converse  of  Penelope's  embroidery,  as  it  ap- 
1  pear<'d  to  advance  at  night  and  retrograde  by 
i  day      She  liad  hastily  smoothed  her  hair  and 
'  rearranged  her  dress,  and  she  looked  as  un- 
!  comfortably  neat  as  when  she  caine  down  to 
breakfast  in  the  fresh  primness  ot  her  matuti- 
nal toilette.  „i,^,.f 
I      She  ha.l  been  sitting  at  her  work  for  about 
ten  minutes  when  John  Mellish  entered  the 
room,  emerginc;  wearv  but  triumphant  from 
his  struggle  with  the  simple  rules  of,m';»'<^\P": 
cation  Iml   substraction.      Mr.    Mellish    had- 
evidentlv   sulVered    severely    in    the    contest. 
His   thick    brown    hair  was   tumt)led  into    a 
rough   mass  that  stood  nearly  upright  upon 
his  head,  his  cravat  was  untied,  and  his  shirt 


90 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


collar  was  thrown  open  for  the  relief  of  his 
capacious  tliroat ;  and  these  and  many  other 
marks  of  the  strugfile  he  boi"e  upon  him  when 
he  entered  tlie  drawin;j-rooni. 

"  I  've  broken  loose  from  school  at  last,  Mrs. 
Powell,"  he  said,  flingint?  his  big  frame  upon 
one  of  the  sof;is,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  the 
German  spring  cushions  ;  "  I  've  broken  away 
before  the  flag  dropped,  for  Langley  wouhl 
have  liked  to  keep  me  there  till  midnight.  He 
followed  me  to  the  door  of  this  room  with 
fourteen  bushels  of  oats  that  was  down  in  the 
corn -chandler's  account  and  was  not  down  in 
the  book  he  keeps  to  check  the  corn-chandler. 
Why  the  doose  don't  he  put  it  down  in  his 
book  and  make  it  right,  then,  I  ask,  instead 
of  bothering  me  '?  What  's  the  good  of  his 
keeping  an  account  to  check  the  corn-chand- 
ler if  he  don't  make  his  account  the  same  as 
the  corn-  chandlei-'s?  But  it  's  all  over,"  he 
added,  with  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  "  it  's  all 
over ;  and  all  I  can  say  is,  I  hope  the  new 
trainer  is  n't  honest." 

"  Do  you  know  much  of  the  new  trainer, 
Mr.  Mellish?"  asked  Mrs.  Powell,  blandly, 
rather  as  if  she  wished  to  amuse  her  employer 
by  the  exertioxi  of  her  conversational  powers 
than  for  the  gratification  of  any  mundane 
curiosity. 

"  Doosed  little,"  answered  John  indifTeront- 
ly.  "I  have  n't  even  seen  the  fellow  yet; 
but  John  Pastern  recommended  him,  and  he 
's  sure  to  be  all  right;  besides,  Aurora  knows 
the  man  ;  he  was  in  her  father's  service 
once." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !"  said  ]Mrs.  Powell,  giving  the 
two  insignificant  words  a  significant  little 
jerk;  "oh,  indeed!  Mrs.  Mellish  knows 
him,  does  she  V  Then  of  course  he  's  a  trust- 
worthy person.  He  's  a  remarkably  hand- 
some young  man." 

"  Remarkably  handsome,  is  he?"  said  Mr. 
Mellish,  with  a  careless  laugh.  "  Then  I  sup- 
pose all  the  maids  will  be  falling  in  love  with 
him,  and  neglecting  their  work  to  look  out  of 
the  windows  that  open  on  to  the  stable-yard, 
hey  ?  That  's  the  sort  of  thing  when  a"  man 
has  a  handsome  groom,  a'n't  it  ?  Susan  and 
Sarah,  and  all  the  rest  of  'em,  take  to  (lean- 
ing the  windows,  and  wearing  new  ribbons  in 
their  caps  ?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,  Mr. 
Mellish,"  answered  the  ensign's  widow,  sim- 
pering over  her  work  as  if  the  question  they 
we.re^  discussing  was  so  vei-y  far  away  that  it 
was  impossible  for  her  to  be  serious  about  it ; 
"  but  my  experience  has  thrown  me  into  a 
very  large  number  of  families."  (She  said 
this  with  perfect  truth,  as  she  had  occupied 
so  many  situations  that  her  enemies  had  come 
to  declare  she  was  unable  to  remain  in  any 
one  household  above  a  twelvemonth,  by  reason 
of  her  employer's  discovery  of  her  real  nat- 
ure.) "I  have  occupied  positions  of  trust 
and  confidence,"  continued  Mrs.  Powell,  "  and 


I  regret  to  say  that  I  have  seen  much  do- 
mestic misery  arise  fiom  the  employment  of 
handsome  s-ervants,  whose  appearance  and 
manners  are  superior  to  their  station.  Mr. 
Conyers  is  not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  I 
should  like  to  see  in  a  household  in  which  I 
had  the  charge  of  young  ladies." 

A  sick,  half  -  shuddering  faintness  crept 
through  John's  herculean  frame  as  Mrs. 
Powell  expressed  herself  thus ;  so  vague  a 
feeling  that  he  scarcely  knew  whether  it  was 
mental  or  physical,  any  better  than  he  knew 
what  it  was  that  he  disliked  in  this  sppech  of 
the  ensign's  widow.  The  feeling  was  as  tran- 
sient as  it  was  vague.  John's  honest  blue 
eyes  looked  wonderingly  round  the  room. 

"  Where  's  Aurora  V"  he  said  ;  '•  gone  to 
bed  V" 

"  I  believe  Mrs.  Mellish  has  retired  to  rest," 
Mrs.  Powell  answered. 

"  Then  I  shall  go  too.  The  pla(;e  is  as  dull 
as  a  dungeon  without  her,"  said  Mi-.  Mellish, 
with  agi-eeable  candor.  "  Perhaps  you  *!1  be 
good  enough  to  make  me  a  glass  of  brandy 
and  water  before  I  go,  Mrs.  Powell,  for  I  've 
got  the  cold  shivers  after  those  accounts." 

He  rose  to  ring  the  bell;  but,  before  he  had 
gone  three  paces  from  the  sofa,  an  impatient 
knocking  at  the  clbsed  outer  shutters  of  one 
of  the  windows  ari'ested  his  footsteps. 

"  Who,  in  mercy's  name,  is  that  ?"  he  ex- 
claimed, staring  at  the  direction  from  which 
the  noise  came,  but  not  attempting  to  respond 
to  the  summons. 

Mrs.  Powell  lookeil  up  to  listen,  with  a 
face  expressive  of  nothing  but  innocent 
wonder. 

The  knocking  was  repeated  more  loudly 
and  impatiently  than  before. 

"  It  must  be  one  of  the  servants,"  muttered 
John  ;  "  but  why  does  n't  he  go  round  to  the 
back  of  the  house  ?  I  can't  keep  the  poor 
devil  out  upon  such  a  night  as  this,  though," 
he  added,  good-naturedly,  unfastening  the 
window  as  he  spoke.  The  sashes  opened  in- 
ward, the  Venetian  shutters  outward.  He 
pushed  these  shutters  open,  and  looked  out 
into  the  darkness  and  the  rain. 

Aurora,  shivering  in  her  drenched  gar- 
ments, stood  a  few  paces  from  him,  with  the 
rain  beating  doirn  straight  and  heavily  upon 
her  head. 

Even  in  that  obscurity  her  husband  recog- 
nized her. 

"  My  darlinff,"  he  cried,  "  is  it  you  ?  You 
out  at  such  a  time,  and  on  such  a  ni^ht !  Come 
in,  for  mercyssake  ;  you  must  be  drenched  to 
the  skin." 

She  came  into  the  room:  the  wet  hanging 
in  her  muslin  dress  streamed  out  upon  the 
carpet  on  which  she  trod,  and  the  folds  of 
her  lace  shawl  clung  tightly  about  her  figure. 

"  Why  di<l  you  let  them  shut  the  windows'/" 
she  said,  turning  to  Mrs.  Powell,  v/ho  had 
risen,  and  was  looking  the  picture  of  lady-like 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


n 


iineasinesii  and  sympathy.  '•  You  know  that  I 
was  in  the  garden." 

"  Yes,  but  I  thought  you  had  returned,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Mellish,"  .«aid  the  ensign's  widow, 
busying  herself  with  Aurora's  wet  shawl, 
which  slie  attempted  to  remove,  but  which 
Mrs.  Mellish  plucked  impatiently  away  from 
her.  "  I  saw  you  go  out,  certainly,  and  I  5aw 
you  leaAC  the  lawn  in  the  direction  of  the 
north  lodge,  but  I  thought  you  had  returned 
some  time  since." 

The  color  faded  out  of  John  Mellish'.s  face. 

"  The  north  lodge  !"  he  said.  "  Have  you 
been  to  the  nortli  lodge  ?" 

"I  have  been  in  the  rtirrrtion  of  (he  n^rth 
/od(/e"  Aurora  answered,  with  a  .sneering  em- 
pha.sis  upon  the  words.  ''  Your  information  is 
])erfect!y  correct,  Mrs.  Powell,  though  I  did 
not  know  you  had  done,  me  the  honor  of 
watching  my  actions." 

Mr.  Mellish  did  not  apjiear  to  hear  this, 
lie  looked  from  his  wife  to  his  wife's  com- 
panion Avith  a  hall-bewildered  expression — an 
expression  of  newly-awakened  doubt,  of  dim, 
struggling  perplexity,  which  was  ycry  painful 
to  see. 

•*  The  north  lodge  I"  he  repeateil ;  "  what 
were  you  doing  at  the  north  lodge,  Aurora?" 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  stand  her 3  in  my  wet 
clothes  while  I  tell  you  V"  asked  Mrs.  Mellish, 
her  great  black  eyes  blazing  up  with  indig- 
nant pride.  "If  you  want  an  explanation  for 
Mrs.  Powell's  satisfaction,  I  can  give  it  here; 
if  onl}'  for  your  own,  it  will  do  as  well  up 
stairs.  ' 

She  swept  toward  the  door,  trailing  her  wet 
shawl  aftiM'  her,  but  not  less  queenly,  even  in 
her  dripping  garments  (Semiramide  and  Cleo- 
patra may  havf  been  out  in  wet  weather)  ; 
but  at  the  door  she  paused  and  looked  back 
at  him. 

•'  T  shall  want  you  to  take  mc  to  London 
to-morrow,  Mr.  Mellish,"  she  said.  Then, 
with  one  haughty  toss  of  her  beautifnl  head, 
and  one  bright  flash  of  her  glorious  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  say,  "  Slave,  obey  and 
tremble  !"  she  disappeared,  leaving  Mr.  Mel- 
lish to  follow  her.  meekly,  woiuleringly,  fear- 
fully, with  terrible  doubts  and  anxieties  creep- 
ing, like  venomous  living  creatures,  stealthily 
into  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

M  O  N  K  Y    M  A  T  T  K  R  S  . 

Archibald  Floyd  was  very  lonely  at  Feldcn 
Woods  without  his  daughter.  lie  took  no 
pleasure  in  the  long  drawing-room,  or  the 
billiard-room  and  library,  or  t\n'  pleasant  gal- 
lories,  in  which  there  were  all  manner  of  easy 
corners,  with  abutting  bay-windows,  damask- 
cushioned  oaken  benches,  china  vases  as  high 
as  tables,  all   enlivened   by   the   alternately 


sternly  masculine  and  simperingly  feminine 
faces  of  those  ancestors  whose  painted  repre- 
sentations the  banker  had  bought  in  War- 
dour-street.  (Indeed,  I  fear  those  Scottish 
warriors,  those  bewigged  worthies  of  the 
Northern  Circuit,  those  taper- waisted  ladies 
with  pointed  stomachers,  tucked-up  petticoats, 
pannier  hoops,  and  blue-ribbon  bedizened 
crooks,  had  been  painted  to  order,  and  that 
tliore  were  such  it'MTis  in  the  account  of  the 
W^ar dour-street  rococo  merchant  as,  ■' To  one 
knight  banneret,  killed  at  Bosvvorth,  £25  6s.") 
The  old  banker.  I  say,  grew  sadly  weary  of 
his  gorgeous  mansion,  which  was  of  little  avail 
to  him  without  Aurora. 

Peojile  are  not  so  very  much  happier  for 
living  in  handsome  houses,  though  it  is  gen- 
erally considered  such  a  delightful  thing  to 
oe<:upv  a  mansion  which  would  be  large 
enough  for  a  hospital,  and  take  your  simple 
meal  at  the  end  of  a  table  long  enough  to 
at;conunodate  a  bop.rd  of  railway  directors. 
Archibald  Floyd  coidd  not  sit  beside  both  the 
fireplaces  in  his  long  drawing-room,  and  he 
felt  strangely  lonely  looking  from  the  easy- 
chair  on  the  hearth-rusr.  through  a  vista  of 
velvet-pile  and  satin-damask,  walnut-wood, 
buhl,  malachite,  china,  parian,  crystal,  and 
ormolu,  at  that  solitary  second  hearth-rug 
and  those  empty  easy-chairs.  lie  shivered  in 
his  dreary  grandeur.  His  five-and-forty  by 
thirty  feet  of  velvet-pile  might  have  been  a 
patch  of  yellow  saml  in  the  great  Sahara  lor 
any  pleasure  he  derived  from  its  occupation. 
The  billiard-room.  ])erhaps.  was  worse ;  for 
the  cues  and  balls  were  every  one  made  pre- 
cious by  Ain-ora's  touch;  and  there  M'as  a 
great  line  drawn  seam  upon  the  green  cloth, 
which  marked  the  spot  where  Miss  Floyd  had 
ripped  it  open  what  time  she  made  her  fir.st 
juvenile  essay  at  billiards. 

The  banker  locked  the  doors  of  both  these 
splendid  ai)artments,  and  gave  the  keys  to  his 
housekee])er. 

"  Keep  the  rooms  in  order,  Mrs.  Richard- 
sou,"  he  .'^aid,  "  and  keep  them  thoroughly 
aired ;  but  I  shall  only  use  them  when  Mr. 
ami  Mrs.  Mellish  come  to  me." 

And.  havino;  shut  up  these  haunted  cham- 
bers, Mr.  Floyd  retired  to  that  snug  little 
study  ill  which  he  kept  his  few  relics  of  the 
sorrowful  past. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  Scottish  lianker  was 
a  very  stu])id  old  man,  and  that  he  might 
have  invited  the  county  families  to  his  gor- 
geous mansion ;  that  he  might  have  sum- 
moned his  nephews  and  their  wives,  with  all 
grand-nephews  and  nieces  ap[)ertaining,  and 
nnght  thus  have  made  the  place  merry  with 
the  sound  of  fre.sh  young  voices,  and  the  long 
corridors  noisy  Avith  the  patter  of  restless 
little  feet.  He  might  have  lured  literary  and 
artistic  celebrities  to  his  lonely  hearth-ioig, 
and  paraded  the  lions  of  the  London  season 
upon  his  velvet-pile.    He  might  have  entered 


92 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


the  political  arena,  and  bave  had  himself 
nominated  for  Beckenham,  Croydon,  or  West 
Wiekham.  He  might  bave  done  almost  any- 
thing; for  he  had  very  nearly  as  much  money 
as  Aladdin,  and  could  have  carried  dishes  of 
uncut  diamonds  to  the  father  of  any  princess 
whom  he  might  take  it  into  his  head  to  marry. 
He  miffht  have  done  almost  anything,  this 
ridicu'ous  old  banker;  yet  he  did  nothing  but 
sit  brooding  over  his  lonely  hearth  —  for  he 
was  old  and  feeble,  and  he  sat  by  the  fire 
even  in  the  bright  summer  weather — thinking 
of  the  daughter  who  was  far  away. 

He  thanked  God  for  her  happy  home,  for 
her  devoted  husband,  for  her  secure  and  hon- 
orable position  ;  and  lie  would  have  given  the 
last  drop  of  his  blood  to  obtain  for  her  these 
advantages;  but  he  was,  after  all,  only  mortal, 
and  he  would  rather  have  had  her  by  his 
side. 

Why  did  he  not  surround  himself  with 
society,  as  brisk  Mrs.  Alexander  urged,  when 
she  found  him  looking  pale  and  care-worn  ? 

Why  ?  Because  society  was  not  Aurora. 
Because  all  the  brightest  bon-mots  of  all  the 
literary  celebrities  who  have  ever  walked  this 
eai-th  seemed  dull  to  him  when  compared  with 
his  daughter's  idlest  babbie.  Literary  lions ! 
Political  notabilities  !  Out  upon  them  !  When 
Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton  and  Mr.  Charles 
Dickens  should  call  in  Mr.  Makepeace  Thack- 
eray and  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  to  assist  them  in 
writing  a  work,  in  fifteen  volumes  or  so,  about 
Aurora,  the  banker  would  be  ready  to  offer 
them  a  handsome  sum  tor  the  copyright.  Until 
then,  he  (tared  very  little  for  the  best  book  in 
Mr.  Mudie's  collection.  When  the  members 
of  the  Legislature  should  bring  their  political 
knowledge  to  bear  upon  Aurora,  Mr.  Archi- 
bald Floyd  would  he  happy  to  listen  to  them. 
In  the  interim,  he  would  have  yawned  in 
Lord  Paimerston's  face,  or  turned  his  back 
upon  Earl  Russell. 

The  banker  had  been  a  kind  uncle,  a  good 
master,  a  warm  friend,  and  a  generous  patron; 
but  he  had  never  loved  any  creature  except 
his  wife  Eliza  and  the  daughter  she  had  left 
to  his  care.  Life  is  not  long  enough  to  hold 
many  such  attachments  as  these ;  and  the 
people  who  love  very  intensely  are  apt  to 
concentrate  the  full  force  of  their  affe(;tion 
upon  one  object.  For  twenty  years  this  black- 
eyed  girl  had  been  the  idol  before  which  the 
old  man  had  knelt;  and  now  that  the  divinity 
is  taken  away  from  him,  he  falls  prostrate  and 
desolate  before  the  empty  shrine.  Heaven 
knows  liow  bitterly  this  beloved  child  had 
made  him  suffer,  how  deeply  she  had  plunged 
the  reckless  dagger  to  the  very  core  of  his 
loving  heart,  and  how  freely,  gladly,  tearfully, 
and  hopefully  he  had  foi'given  her.  But  she 
had  never  atoned  for  the  past.  It  is  poor  con- 
solation which  Lady  Macbeth  gives  to  her 
remorseful  husband  when  she  tells  him  that 
*'  what  's  done  can  not  be  undone  ;"  but  it  is 


painfully  and  terribly  true.  Aurora  could  nor 
restore  the  year  which  she  had  taken  our 
of  her  father's  life,  and  which  his  anguish  and 
despair  had  multiplied  by  ten.  She  could  nor 
restore  the  efpial  balance  of  the  mind  which 
had  once  experienced  a  shock  so  dreadful 
as  to  shatter  its  serenity,  as  we  shatter  the 
mechanism  of  a  watch  when  we  let  it  fall 
violently  to  the  ground.  The  watchmaker 
patches  up  the  damage,  and  gives  us  a  new 
wheel  here,  and  a  spring  there,  and  sets  the 
hands  going  again,  but  they  never  go  so 
smoothly  as  whtn  the  watch  was  fresh  from 
the  hands  of  the  maker,  and  they  are  apt 
to  stop  suddenly  with  no  shadow  of  warning. 
Aurora  could  not  atone.  Whatever  the  nat- 
ure of  that  girlish  error  which  made  the 
mystery  of  her  life,  it  was  not  to  be  undom*. 
She  could  more  easily  have  baled  the  ocean 
dry  with  a  souj)-ladle — and  I  dare  say  she 
would  gladly  have  gone  to  work  to  spoon  out 
the  salt  water  if  by  so  doing  she  could  have 
undone  that  by-gone  mischief.  But  .she  could 
not;  she  could  not!  Her  tears,  her  2)cnltenc», 
her  affection,  her  respect,  her  devotion  could 
do  much,  but  they  could  not  do  this. 

The  old  banker  invited  Talbot  Bulstrode 
and  his  young  wife  to  make  themselves  at 
home  at  Felden,  and  drive  down  to  the 
AVoods  as  freely  as  if  the  place  had  been 
some  country  mansion  of  their  own.  They 
came  sometimes,  and  Talbot  entertained  his 
great-uncle-In-law  with  the  troubles  of  the 
Cornish  miners,  while  Lucy  sat  listening  to 
her  husbands  talk  with  unmitigated  rever- 
ence and  delight.  Archibald  Floyd  made  his 
guests  very  welcome  upon  these  occasions, 
and  gave  orders  that  the  oldest  and  costliest 
wines  in  the  cellar  should  be  brouglit  out  for 
the  captain's  entertainment;  hut  sometimes, 
in  the  very  middle  of  Talbot's  discourse  upon 
political  economy,  the  old  man  would  sigh 
wearily,  and  look  with  a  dimly-yearning  gaze 
far  away  over  the  tree-tops  iu  a  northward 
direction,  toward  that  distant  Yorkstiire 
household  in  which  his  daughter  was  tlie 
j  queen. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Floyd  had  never  quite  for- 
I  given  Talbot  Bulstrode  for  the  breaking  off 
of  the  match  between  him  and  Aurora.  The 
;  banker  had,  certainly,  of  the  two  suitors,  pre- 
I  ferred  John  Mellish  ;  but  he  would  have  con- 
I  sidered  it  only  correct  if  Captain  Bulstrode 
i  had  retired  from  the  world  upon  the  occasion 
'  of  Aurora  8  marriage,  and  broken  his  lieart  in 
I  foreign  exile,  i-ather  than  advertising  his  iu- 
j  difference  by  a  union  with  poor  little  Lucy. 
i  Archibald  looked  wonderingly  at  his  fair- 
I  haired  niece  as  she  sat  before  him  in  the 
deep  bay-window,  with  the  sunshine  upon 
I  her  amber  tresses  and  the  crisp  folds  of  her 
I  peach-colored  silk  dress,  looking  for  all  the 
I  world  like  one  of  the  painted  heroines  so 
dear  to  the  pre-Raphaelite  brotherhood,  and 
I  marvelled  how  it  was  that  Talbot  could  have 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


98 


come  to  admire  her.  She  was  very  pretty, 
certainly,  with  pink  cheeks,  a  white  nose,  and 
rose-colored  nostrils,  and  a  species  of  beauty 
which  consists  in  very  careful  f5nishin<T-off" 
and  picking-out  of  the  featin-es ;  but  oh,  how 
tame,  how  cold,  how  weak,  beside  that 
Egyptian  (roddcss,  that  Assyrian  queen  with 
the  flashing  eyes  and  the  serpentine  coils  ot 
purple-black  hair  ! 

Talbot  Culstrode  was  very  calm,  very  quiet, 
but  apparently  sufficiently  happy.    I  u.«e  that ! 
word  "  suflicicntly"  advisedly.     Jt  is   a  dan-  | 
gerous  thing  to  be  too  happy.     Your  high-  j 
pressure  happiness,  your  sixty-miles-an-hour  j 
enjoyment,  is  apt  to   burst  up  and  come  to  i 
a  hard  end.     Better  the  quietest  parliamen-  | 
tary    train,  which   starts   very   early    in   the  j 
morning,  and  carries  its  passengers  safe  into  | 
the  terminus  when  the  shades  of  night  come  | 
down,  than  that  rabid,  rushing  express,  which  j 
does  the  journey  in  a  quarter  of  the    time,  I 
but  occasionally  topples  over  a  bank,  or  rides 
pickaback  upon  a  luggage-train  in   its   fiery 
impetuosity. 

Talbot  BuLstrode  was  substantially  happier 
with  Lucy  than  he  ever  could  have  been  with 
Aurora.  His  fair  young  wife's  undemonstra- 
tive worship  of  him  soothed  and  flattered  him. 
Her  gentle  obedience,  her  entire  concurrence 
In  his  every  thouglit  and  whim,  set  hi.s  pride 
at  rest.  She  was  not  eccentric,  she  was  not 
impetuous.  If  he  left  her  alone  all  day  in  the 
snug  little  house  in  Half-Moon  street  which 
he  luid  furnished  before  his  marriage,  he  had 
no  fear  of  her  calling  for  her  horse  and 
scampering  away  into  Rotten  Row,  with  not 
>o  much  as  a  groom  to  attend  upon  her.  She 
was  not  strong-minded.  She  could  be  happy 
without  the  society  of  Newfoundlands  and 
Skye  terriers.  She  did  not  prefer  Landseer's 
dog-pictures  above  all  other  examples  of  mod- 
ern art.  She  might  have  walked  down  Regent 
street  a  hundred  times  without  being  once 
tempted  to  loiter  upon  the  curb-stone  and 
bargHin  with  suspicious-looking  merchants  for 
a  "  noice  leetle  dawg."  She  was  altogether 
gentle  and  womanly,  and  Talbot  had  no  fear 
to  trust  lier  to  her  own  sweet  will,  and  no  need 
to  impress  upon  her  the  necessity  of  lending 
her  feeble  little  hands  to  the  mighty  task  of  sus- 
taining the  dignity  of  the  Raleigh  Bulstrodes. 

She  would  (ding  to  him  sometimes  half 
lovingly,  half  timidly,  and,  looking  up  with  a 
prett}',  deprecating  smile  into  his  coldly  hand- 
.>ome  face,  ask  hnn,  falteringly,  if  he  was 
really,  rk.\1-I-y  happy. 

"  Yes,  my  darling  girl,"  the  Cornish  captain 
would  answer,  being  very  well  accustomed  to 
the  question,  "  decidedly,  very  happy." 

His  calm  bu.siness- like  tone  would  rather 
disappoint  poor  Lucy,  and  she  would  vaguely 
wish  that  her  husband  had  been  a  little  more 
like  the  heroes  in  the  High -Church  novels, 
and  a  little  less  devoted  to  Adam  Smiti),  Mc- 
Culloch,  and  the  Cornish  mines. 


"  But  you  don't  love  me  as  you  loved  Au- 
rora, Talbot  ?"  (Tliere  wore  profane  jieople 
who  corrupted  the  captain's  Christian  name 
into  "  Tal ;"  but  Mrs.  Bulstrode  was  not  more 
likely  to  avail  herself  of  that  disrespectful 
abbreviation  than  shr  was  to  address  her  gra- 
cious sovereign  as  "Vic")  "But  you  don't 
love  me  as  you  loved  Aurora,  Talbot,  dear  ?" 
the  pleasing  voice  would  urge,  so  tenderly 
anxious  to  be  contradicted. 

"  Not  as  I  loved  Aurora,  perhaps,  darling." 

"  Not  as  much  V"' 

"  As  much  and  better,  my  pet;  with  a  more 
enduring  and  a  wiser  love." 

If  this  was  a  little  bit  of  a  fib  when  the 
captain  first  said  it,  i.s  he  to  be  utterly  con- 
demned for  the  falsehood?  How  could  he 
resist  the  loving  blue  eyes  so  ready  to  fill 
with  tears  if  he  had  answered  coldly  ;  the 
softly  pensive  voice,  tremulous  with  emotion  ; 
the  earnest  face;  the  care.«sing  hand  laid  so 
lightly  upon  his  coat-collar  ?  He  must  have 
been  more  than  mortal  had  he  given  any  but 
loving  answers  to  those  loving  questions.  The 
day  soon  came  when  his  answers  were  no 
longer  tinged  with  so' much  as  the  sh.idow  of 
falsehood.  His  little  wife  crept  stealthily, 
almost  imperceptibly  into  his  heart;  and  if 
he  remembered  the  fever-dream  of  the  past, 
it  was  only  to  rejoice  in  the  tranquil  security 
of  the  present. 

/  Talbot  Bulstrode  and  his  wife  were  staying 
at  Felden  Woods  for  a  few  days  durinj^  the 
burning  July  weather,  and  sat  down  to  dinner 
with  Mr.  Floyd  upon  the  day  succeeding  the 
night  of  the  storm.  They  were  disturbed  in 
the  very  midst  of  that  dinner  by  the  unex- 
pected arrival  of  Mr.  and  Mr.s.  Mellish,  who 
rattled  up  to  the  door  in  a  hired  vehicle,  just 
as  the  second  course  was  being  placed  ujmjd 
the  table. 

Archibald  Floyd  recognized  the  first  mur- 
mur of  his  daughter's  voice,  and  ran  out 
into  the  hall  to  welcome  her. 

She  showed  no  eagerness  to  throw  herself 
into  her  fat  her's  arms,  but  stood  looking  at  John 
Mellish  with  a  weary,  absent  expression,  while 
the  stalwart  Yorkshireman  allowed  himself  to 
be  gradually  disencumbered  of  a  chaotic  load 
of  travelling-bags,  sun-umbrellas,  shawls,  mag- 
azines, newspapers,  and  overcoats. 

"  My  darling,  my  darling  !"  exclaimed  the 
banker,  "  what  a  happy  surprise,  what  an  un- 
expected pleasure  i" 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but,  with  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  looked  mournfully  into  his 
face. 

"  She  would  come,"  said  Mr.  John  Mellish, 
addressing  himself  generally;  "she  would 
come.  The  doose  knows  why  !  But  she  said 
she  must  come,  and  wiiat  could  I  do  but  bring 
her  ?  If  she  asked  me  to  take  her  to  the 
moon,  what  could  1  do  but  take  her  V  But 
she  would  n't  biing  any  luggage  to  t-peak  of, 
because  we  "re  going  back  to-morrow." 


94 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


.  "Going  back  to-niorroAv  !"  repeated  Mr. 
Floyd ;  "  Impossible."' 

"Bless  your  heart !"  cried  John,  "  what  's 
impossible  to  Lolly  ?  If  she  wanted  to  go  to 
the  moon,  she  'd  go,  don't  I  tell  you?  She 
'd  have  a  special  engine,  or  a  special  balloon, 
or  a  special  something  or  other,  and  she  'd  go. 
When  we  were  in  Paris  she  wanted  to  sec  the 
big  fountains  play,  and  she  told  me  to  Avrite  to 
the  emperor  and  ask  him  to  have  them  set 
going  for  her.     She  did,  by  Jove  I" 

Lncy  Bulstrode  came  lor  ward  to  bid  her 
cousin  welcome;  but  J  fear  that  a  sharp, 
jealous  pang  thrilled  through  that  innocent 
hear*  at  the  thought  that  those  fatal  black 
eyes  were  again  brought  to  bear  upon  Tal- 
bot's life. 

Mrs.  Jlellish  put  her  arms  about  her  cousin 
as  tenderly  as  if  she  had  been  embracing  a 
child. 

"  You  here,  dearest  l>ucy  I"  she  said.  "  I 
am  so  very  glad." 

"  He  loves  me,"  whispered  little  Mrs.  Bul- 
strode, "  and  I  never,  never  can  tell  you  how 
good  he  is." 

"  Of  course  not,  my  darling,"  answered 
Aurora,  drawing  her  cousin  aside  while  Mr. 
Mellish  shook  hands  with  his  father-in-law 
and  Tallujt  Bulstrode.  "  He  is  the  most 
glorious  of  princes,  the  most  perfect  of  saints, 
is  he  not  ?  and  you  worship  him  all  day ;  you 
sing  silent  hymns  in  his  praise,  and  perfori\ 
high  mass  in  his  honor,  and  go  about  telling 
his  virtues  upon  an  imaginary  rosary.  Ah  I 
Lucy,  how  many  kinds  of  love  there  are ; 
and  who  shall  say  which  is  the  best  or  high- 
est? I  see  plain,  blundcrinyj  John  Mellish 
yonder  with  unprejudiced  eyes ;  I  know  his 
every  fault,  I  laugh  at  his  evei-y  awkward- 
ness. Yes,  I  laugh  uoav,  for  he  is  dropping 
those  things  faster  than  the  servants  can  pick 
them  up." 

She  stopped  to  point  to  poor  John's  chaotic 
bnrdcn. 

"I  see  all  this  as  plainly  as  I  sec  the  dcli- 
ciencies  of  the  servant  who  stands  behind  mv 
chair ;  and  yet  I  love  him  with  all  my  heart 
and  soul,  and  I  wou|d  not  have  one  fault  cor- 
rected, or  one  virtue  exaggerated,  for  fear  it 
should  make  him  diftl-rent  to  what  he  is." 

Lucy  Bulstrode  gave  a  little  half-resigned 
sigh. 

"  What  a  blessing  that  m}-  poor  cousin  is 
happy,"  she  thought ;  "  and  yet  how  can  she 
be  otherwise  than  miserable  with  that  absurd 
John  Mellish  ?" 

What  Lucy  meant  perhaps  was  this.  IIow 
could  Aurora  be  otherwise  than  wretched  in 
the  companionship  of  a  gentleman  who  had 
neither  a  straight  nose  nor  dark  hair.  Some 
women  never  outlive  that  school-girl  infatua- 
tion for  straight  noses  and  dark  hair.  Some 
girls  would  have  rejected  Napoleon  the  Great 
because  he  was  n't  "tali,"  or  would  have 
turned  up  their  noses  at  the  author  of  Childe 


Harold  if  they  had  happened  to  see  him  in  a 
stand-up  collar.  If  Lord  Byron  had  never 
turned  down  his  collars,  would  his  poetry 
have  been  as  popular  as  it  was.  If  Mr.  Al- 
fred Tennyson  were  to  cut  his  hair,  would 
that  operation  modify  our  opinion  of  Thf. 
Queen  of  the  M<i>/ ?  Where  does  that  mar- 
vellous power  of  association  begin  and  end? 
Perhaps  there  may  have  been  a  reason  foi' 
Aurora's  contentment  with  her  commonplace, 
prosaic  Inisband.  Perhaps  she  had  learned  at 
a  very  early  period  of  hei-  life  that  there  are 
qualities  even  more  valuable  than  exquisitely 
modelled  features  or  clustering  locks.  Per- 
haps, having  begun  to  be  foolish  very  early, 
she  had  outstripped  her  contemporaries  in  the 
race,  and  had  early  learned  to  be  wise. 

Archibald  Floyd  led  his  daughter  and  her 
husband  into  the  dining-room,  and  the  dinner- 
party sat  down  again  with  the  two  uuexpect- 
i  cd  guests,  and  the  second  course  was  served, 
and  the  lukewarm    salmon  brought  in  again 
I  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish. 
j       Aurora  sat  in  her  old  place  on  her  father's 
i  right   hand.     In    the    old   girlish   days   Miss 
j  Floyd   had  never  occupied  the  l)ottom  of  the 
,  table,  but  had  loved  best  to  sit  close  to  that 
foolishly  doting  parent,  pouring  out  hi.s  wine 
I  for  him  in  defiance  of  the  servants,  and  doing 
other  loving  ofiices  which  were  deliciously  in- 
convenient to  the  old  man. 

To-day  Aurora  seemed  especially  affeotion- 
]  ate.  That  fondly  clinging  manner  had  all  its 
!  ancient  charm  to  the  banker.  He  put  down 
his  glass  with  a  tremulous  hand  to  gaze  at  hi.s 
darling  child,  and  was  dazzled  with  her 
beauty,  and  drunken  with  the  happiness  of 
having  her  near  him. 

"  But,  my  darling,"  he  said,  by  and  by, 
"  what  do  you  mean  by  talking  about  going 
back  to  Yorkshire  to-morrow  ?" 

•'Xothing,  papa,  except  thut  1  must  go," 
answei-ed  Mrs.  Mellish.  dete7'minedly. 

•'But  why  come,  dear,  if  you  could  only 
stop  one  night  ?" 

"  Because  i  wanted  to  si  <•  you,  dearest 
father,  and  to  talk  to  you  about — about  money 
matters." 

"  That  's  it,"  exclaimed  John  Mellish,  with 
his  mouth  half  full  of  salmon  and  lobster- 
gauce.  "  That  's  it !  Money  matters  !  That  'a 
all  I  can  get  out  of  her.  She  goes  out  late 
last  night,  and  roams  about  the  garden,  and 
comes  in  wet  through  and  through,  and  aays 
she  must  come  to  London  about  money  mat- 
ters. What  should  she  want  with  money 
matters  ?  If  she  wants  money,  she  can  have 
as  much  as  she  wants.  She  shall  write  the 
figures,  and  I  '11  sign  the  (theck ;  or  she  shall 
have  a  dozen  blank  cheeks  to  fill  in  just  as 
she  pleases.  What  is  there  upon  this  earth 
that  I  'd  refuse  her  ?  If  she  dipped  a  little 
too  deep,  and  put  more  money  than  she  could 
afford  upon  the  bay  filly,  why  does  n't  ehe 
come  to  me,  instead  of  bothcrinur  you  about 


vVURORA  FLOYD. 


95 


nonoy  matters?  You  know  T  said  so  in  tlie 
rain,  Aurora,  ever  so  many  times.  Why 
jotlier  your  poor  papa  about  it  ?" 

The  poor  papa  looked  won(]eringly  from  his 
laughter  to  his  daughters  husband.  What 
lid  it  all  mean?  Trouble,  vexation,  weari- 
less of  spirit,  humiliation,  disgrace  ? 

Ah !  Heaven  lielp  that  enfeebled  mind 
whose  strength  has  been  shattered  by  one 
jreat  shock.  Archibald  Floyd  dreaded  the 
;oken  of  a  coming  storm  in  every  chance 
?loud  on  the  summer's  sky. 

*'  Perhaps  I  may  prefer  to  spend  my  own 
nonoy,  ]\Ir.  John  Mellish,"  answered  Aurora, 
'  and  pay  any  foolish  bets  I  have  chosen  to 
iiakt;  out  of  my  oirn  purse,  without  being 
indcr  an  ol)ligation  to  any  one." 

Mr.  Mellish  returned  to  his  salmon  in  si- 
ence. 

"  There  is  no  occasion  for  a  gniat  mystery, 
lapa,"  resumed  Ain-ora ;  "  I  want  some  money 
or  a  particular  purpose,  and  I  have  come  to 
jonsult  with  you  about  my  aflairs.  There  is 
lotliing  very  extraoi'dinary  in  that,  I  sup- 
)Ose  ?"' 

Mrs.  John  Mellish  tossed  her  head,  and 
lung  this  sentence  at  the  assembly  as  if  it 
lad  been  a  challenge.  Iler  manner  was  so 
lefiant  that  even  Talbot  and  Lucy  felt  called 
ipon  to  respond  with  a  gentle  dissenting  mur- 
nur. 

"  No,  no,  of  coin-se  not ;  nothing  more  natn- 
•al."  muttered  the  captain  ;  but  he  was  think- 
ng  nil  the  time,  "  Thank  God  I  mariicd  the 
)tlier  one." 

After  dinner  the  little  party  strolled  out  of 
;he  drawing-room  windows  on  to  the  lawn, 
ind  away  toward  that  iron  bridge  upon  whicli 
Aurora  had  stood,  with  her  dog  by  her  side, 
ess  than  two  years  ago,  on  the  occasion  of 
ralbot  Bulstrode's  second  visit  to  Felden 
Woods.  Lingering  upon  that  bridge,  on  this 
:ranquil  summers  evening,  what  could  the 
;aptain  do  but  think  of  that  September  day, 
jarely  two  years  agone  ?  Barely  two  years  ! 
not  two  years!  And  how  much  liad  been 
lone,  and  thought,  and  suffered  since  !  ITuw 
:ontemptible  was  the  narrow  space  of  time  ! 
V'et  what  terrible  eternities  of  anguish,  what 
•enturies  of  heart-break,  had  been  compressed 
into  that  pitiful  sum  of  days  and  weeks ! 
When  the  fraudulent  partner  in  some  house 
.■)f  business  puts  the  money  which  is  not  his 
)wn  upon  a  Derby  favorite,  and  goes  home  at 
night  a  loser,  it  is  strangely  diilicult  for  that 
wretcluMl  deiaulter  to  believe  that  it  is  not 
twelve  houis  since  he  travelled  the  road  to 
Epsom  confident  of  suc(;e.ss,  and  calculating 
how  he  should  invest  his  winnings.  Talbot 
Bulstrode  was  very  silent,  thinking  of  the. 
influence  which  this  family  of  Felden  Woods 
had  had  upon  his  destiny.  His  little  Lucy  saw 
that  silence  and  thoughtfulness,  and,  stealing 
soflly  to  her  husband,  linked  her  arm  in  his. 
She  had  a  right  to  do  it  now — yes,  to  ])H.<is  her 


]  little  sofl  white  hand  under  his  coat  sleeve, 
I  and  even  look  up,  almost  boldly,  in  his  face. 
I      "  Do  you  remember  when  you  first  came  to 

Felden,  and  we  stood  upon  this  very  bridge  ?" 
!  she  asked ;  for  she  too  had  been  tliinking  of 
I  that  far-away  time  in  the  bright  September 
j  of  '57.  "  Do  you  remember,  Talbot,  dear?" 
i      She  had  drawn  him  away  from  the  banker 

and  his  children  in  order  to  ask  this  all-im- 
I  portant  question. 

j      "  Yes,    perfectly,    darling.      As    well    as   I 
;  remember  your  graceful  figure  seated  at  the 
I  piano   in    the    long   drawing-room,   with   the 
j  sunshine  on  your  hair." 
I      "  You  remember  that  I  you  remember  me!" 

exclaimed  Lucy,  rapturously. 
'      "  Very  well,  indeed." 

i      '•  But  I  thought — that  is,  I  know — that  vou 
I  were  in  love  with  Aurora  then." 
I      '*  I  think  not." 

"  You  only  think  not." 
j  "  How  <'an  I  tell !"  cried  Talbot.  "  I  freely 
I  confess  that  my  first  recollection  connected 
I  with  this  place  is  of  a  gorgeous  black-eyed 
!  creature,  with  scarlet  in  her  hair;  and  I  can 
i  no  more  disassociate  her  image  from  Felden 
!  Woods  than  I  can,  with  my  bare  right  liand, 
I  pluck  up  the  trees  which  give  the  ]ilaee  irs 
I  name.  But  if  you  entertain  one  distrustful 
I  thought  of  that  ]^i\\ti  shadow  of  the  past,  you 
i  do  yourself  and  me  a  grievous  wrong.  I 
j  mude  a  mistake,  Lucy;   but,  thank  Heaven,  I 

saw  it  in  time." 

It  is  to  be  observed  that  Captain  Bulstrode 

was  always  peculiarly  demonstrative  in  his 
I  gratitude  to   Providence  for  his  escape  from 

the  bonds  whi<;h  were  to  have  united  him  to 
i  Aurora.  He  also  made  a  great  point  of  the 
!  benign    comjiassion    in  which    he   held  John 

Mellish.     But,  in  despite  of  this,  he  was  apt 

to  be  rather  captious  and  (luarrelsomely  dis- 
'  posed  toward  the  Yorkshireman ;  and  I  doubt 
\  if  John's  little  stupidities  and  weaknesses  were, 
'  on  the  whole,  very  displeasing  to  him.  There 
I  are    some    wounds    which    never   heal.     The 

jagged  flesh  may  reunite  ;  cooling  medicines 
j  may  subdue  the  inflammation ;  even  the  scar 
j  left  by  the  dagger-thrust  may  wear  away, 
!  until  it  disappears  in  that  gradual  transforma- 
!  tion  whicli  every  atom  of  us  is  supposed  by 
'  physiologists  to  undergo;  but  the  wound  Ikh^ 
I  been,  and  to  the  last  hour  of  our  lives  there 
\  are  unfavorable  winds  which  can  make  us 
I  wince  with  the  old  pain. 

Aurora  treated  her  cou.sin's  husband  with 
j  the  calm  cordiality  which  she  migiit  have  felt 
j  for  a  brother.  She  bore  no  grudge  against 
I  him  for  the  old  desertion,  for  siie  was  ljap]iy 
i  with  her  husband  —  happy  with  the  man  who 
j  loved  and  believed  in  her,  surviving  every  trial 

of  his  simple  faith.     Mrs.  Mellish  and  Lucy 
'  wandered  aninng  the  flower-beds  by  tlie  water- 
■  si<ie,  leaving  the  gentlemen  on  the  bridge. 
!      ••  So  you  are  very,  very  happy,  my  Lucy  ?" 
'  said  .\urora. 


90 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  dear.  How  could  I  be  other- 
wise. Talbot  is  so  jiood  to  me.  I  know,  of 
course,  that  he  loved  yoa  first,  and  that  he 
does  n't  love  me  quite — in  the  same  way,  you 
know — perhaps,  in  fact — not  as  much."  Lucy 
Bulstrodc  was  never  tired  of  harping  on  this 
unfortunate  minor  string.  "  But  I  am  very 
happy.  You  must  come  and  see  us,  Aurora, 
dear.     Our  house  is  so  pretty  !"  . 

Mrs.  Bulstrode  hereupon  entered  into  a  de- 
tailed description  of  the  furniture  and  decora- 
tions in  IIalf-I\Ioon  street,  which  is  perhaps 
warcely  worthy  of  record.  Aurora  listened 
rather  absently  to  the  long  catalogue  of  up- 
holstery, and  }'awned  several  times  before  her 
cousin  had  tinislied. 

"It 's  a  very  pretty  house,  I  dare  say,  Lucy," 
she  said  at  hi.st,  "and  John  and  1  will  be  very 
glad  to  come  and  see  you  some  day.  I  won- 
der, Lucy,  if  I  were  to  come  in  any  trouble 
or  disgrace  to  your  door,  whether  you  would 
turn  me  aw  a}-  ?" 

"Trouble!  di.sgrace!"  repeated  Lucy,  look- 
ing frightened. 

"  You  would  n't  turn  me  away,  Lucy,  would 
vou  ?  No;  I  know  you  better  than  that. 
You  'd  let  me  in  secretly,  and  hide  me  away 
in  one  of  the  servants'  bedrooms,  and  bring 
me  food  by  stealth,  for  fear  the  captain  should 
discover  the  forbidden  guest  beneath  his  roof. 
You  'd  serve  two  masters,  Lucy,  in  fear  and 
trembling." 

Before  Mrs.  Bulstrode  could  make  any  an- 
swer to  this  extraordinary  speech,  the  ap- 
proach of  the  gentlemen  interrupted  the  femi- 
nine conference. 

It  was  scarcely  a  lively  evening,  this  July 
sunset  at  Felden  Woods.  Archibald  Floyd's 
gladness  in  his  daughter's  presence  was  some- 
thing damped  by  the  peculiaritj^  of  her  visit ; 
John  Mellish  had  some  shadowy  remnants  of 
the  previous  night's  disquietude  hanging  about 
him  ;  Talbot  Bulstrode  was  thoughtful  and 
moody  ;  and  poor  little  Lucy  was  tortured  by 
vague  fears  of  her  brilliant  cousin's  influence. 
I  don't  suppose  that  any  member  of  that  "at- 
tenuated "  assembly  felt  very  much  regret 
when  the  great  clock  in  the  stable-yard  struck 
eleven,  and  tlie  jingling  bedroom  candlesticks 
were  brought  into  the  room. 

Talbot  and  his  wife  were  the  first  to  say 
good-night.  Aurora  lingered  at  her  father's 
side,  and  John  Mellish  looked  doubtfully  at 
liis  dashing  white  sergeant,  waiting  to  receive 
the  word  of  command. 

"You  may  go,  John,"  she  said;  "I  want  to 
speak  to  papa." 

"  But  1  can  wait,  Lolly." 

"  On  no  account,"  answered  Mrs.  Mellish, 
sharply.  "  I  am  going  into  papa's  study  to 
have  a  quiet  confabulation  with  him.  What 
end  would  be  gained  by  your  waiting?  You 
've  been  yawning  in  our  faces  all  the  evening. 
You  're  tired  to  death,  I  know,  John ;  so  go 
at  once,  my  precious  i)et,  and  leave  papa  and 


me  to  discuss  our  money  matters."  She  pout- 
ed her  rosy  lips,  and  stood  upon  tiptoe,  while 
the  big  Yorkshireman  kissed  her. 

"  How  you  do  henpeck  me,  Lolly  !'*  he  said, 
rather  sheepishly.  "Good -night,  sir.  God 
bless  you  !     Take  care  of  my  darling." 

He  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Floyd,  paiiing 
from  him  with  that  half-affectionate,  half-rev- 
erent manner  which  he  always  displayed  to 
Aurora's  father.  Mrs.  Mellish  stood  for  some 
moments  silent  and  motionless,  looking  at"te.r 
her  husband,  while  her  father,  watching  her 
looks,  tried  to  read  their  meaning. 

How  quiet  are  the  tragedies  of  real  life  ! 
That  dreadful  scene  between  the  Moor  and  his 
Ancient  takes  place  in  the  open  street  ot*  Cy- 
prus. According  to  modern  usage,  I  can  not 
fancy  Othello  and  Jago  debating  about  poor 
Desdemona's  honesty  in  St.  Paul's  church- 
yard, or  even  in  the  market-place  of  a  coun- 
try town ;  but  perhaps  the  Cyprus  street  was 
a  dull  one,  a  cxil-de-sac,  it  may  be,  or  at  least 
a  deserted  thoroughfare,  something  like  that 
in  which  Monsieur  Melnotte  falls  upon  the 
shoulder  of  General  Damas  and  sobs  out  his 
lamentations.  But  our  modern  tragedies 
seem  to  occur  in-doors,  and  in  places  where 
we  should  least  look  for  scenes  of  horror. 
Even  while  I  write  this  the  London  flaneurs 
are  staring  all  agape  at  a  shop-window  in  a 
crowded  street  as  if  every  pitiful  feather, 
every  poor  shred  of  ribbon  in  that  milliner's 
window  had  a  mystical  association  with  the 
terrors  of  a  room  up  stairs.  But  to  the  igno- 
rant passers-by  how  commonplace  the  spot 
must  seem;  hoiv  remote  in  its  e very-day  asso- 
ciations Irom  the  terrors  of  life's  tragedy ! 

Any  chance  traveller  driving  from  Becken- 
ham  to  West  Wickham  woidd  have  looked,' 
perhaps  enviously,  at  the  Felden  mansion, 
and  sighed  to  be  lord  of  that  fair  expanse  of| 
park  and  garden  ;  yet  I  doubt  if  in  the  coun- 
ty of  Kent  there  was  any  creature  more  dis- 
turbed iu  mind  than  Archibald  Floyd,  the 
banker.  Those  few  moments  during  which j 
Aurora  stood  in  thoughtful  silence  were  as  soi 
many  hours  to  his  an.xious  mind.  At  last  she 
spoke. 

"Will  you  come  to  the  study,  papa?"  she 
said  ;  "  this  room  is  so  big,  and  so  diudy  light-{ 
ed,  I  always  fancy  there  are  listeners  in  the 
corners." 

She  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  led  the 
way  to  a  room  upon  the  other  side  of  the  hall 
— the  room  in  which  she  and  her  father  had 
been  so  long  closeted  together  upon  the  night 
before  her  departure  for  Paris.  The  crayon 
portrait  of  Eliza  Floyd  looked  down  upon 
Archibald  and  his  daughter.  The  face  woi*e 
so  bi-ight  and  genial  a  smile  that  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  believe  it  was  the  face  of  the  dead. 

The  banker  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"My  darling  girl,"  he  said,  "what  is  it  yoa' 
want  of  me  ?" 

"  Money,  papa.     Two  thousand  pounds." 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


97 


She  cheeked  his  gesture  of  surprise,  and  re-  I 
sutned  before  he  could  interrupt  her :  j 

"  The  money  you  settled  upon  me  on  ray 
marriage  with  John  Mellish  is  invested  in  oui* 
own  bank,  I  know.  I  know,  too,  that  I  can 
draw  upon  my  account  when  and  how  I  please ; 
but  I  thought  that  if  I  wrote  a  check  for  two 
thousand  pounds  the  unusual  amount  might 
attract  attention,  and  it  might  possibly  fall 
into  your  hands.  Had  this  occurred,  you 
would  perhaps  have  been  alarmed,  at  any 
rate  astonished.  I  thought  it  best,  therefore, 
to  come  to  you  myself  and  ask  you  (or  the 
money,  especially  as  I  must  have  it  in  notes." 

Archibald  Floyd  grew  very  pale.  He  had 
befn  standing  while  Aurora  spoke,  but  as  she 
finisiied  he  dropped  into  a  chair  near  his  little 
oihce-table,  and,  resting  his  elbow  upon  an 
open  desk,  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand. 

"  What  do  you  want  tlie  money  for,  my 
dear  ?"  he  asked,  gravely. 

"  Never  mind  what,  papa.  It  is  my  own 
money,  is  it  not,  and  1  may  spend  it  as  I 
please  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,  certainly,"  he  an- 
swered, with  some  slight  hesitation.  "  You 
shall  spend  whatever  you  please.  I  am  rich 
enough  to  indulge  any  whim  of  yours,  how- 
ever ibolish,  however  e.vtravagant.  But  your 
marriage  settlement  was  rather  intended  for 
the  benefit  of  your  children — than — than  for 
— anything  of  this  kind,  and  I  scarcely  know 
if  you  are  justified  in  touching  it  without 
your  husband's  permission,  especially  as  your 
pin-money  is  really  large  enough  to  enable 
you  to  gratity  any  reasonable  wish." 

The  old  man  pushed  his  gray  hair  away 
from  his  forehead  with  a  weary  action  and  a 
tremulous  hand.  Heaven  knows  that  even  in 
that  desperate  moment  Aurora  took  notice  of 
the  feeble  hand  and  the  whitening  hair 

''  Give  me  the  money,  then,  papa,"  she  said. 
"  Give  it  me  from  your  own  purse.  You  are 
rich  enough  to  do  that." 

"  Rich  enough  I  Yes,  if  it  were  twenty 
times  the  sum,"  answered  the  banker,  slowly. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  passion,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  Oh,  Aurora,  Aurora,  why  do  you 
treat  me  so  badly  ?  Have  I  been  so  cruel  a 
father  that  you  can't  confide  in  me.  Aurora, 
why  do  you  want  this  money  ?" 

She  cla.^ped  her  hands  tightly  together,  and 
«tood  looking  at  him  for  a  lew  moments  irres- 
olutely. 

"  I  can  not.  tell  you,"  she  said,  with  grave 
determination.  "  If  I  were  to  tell  you — what 
— what  I  think  of  doing,  you  might  thwart 
me  in  my  purpose.  Father !  father !"  she 
cried,  with  a  sudden  change  in  her  voice  and 
manner,  "  I  am  hemmed  in  on  every  side  by 
difficulty  and  danger,  and  there  is  only  one 
way  of  escape — except  death.  Unless  I  take 
that  one  way,  I  must  die.  I  am  very  young — 
too  young  and  happy,  perhaps,  to  die  willing- 
ly. Give  mc  the  means  of  escape." 
7 


"  You  mean  this  sura  of  monev  V" 
"  Yes." 

"  You  have  been  pestered  by  .some  connec- 
tion— some  old  associate  of — his  V 
'•No." 

"  What  then  ?'* 
"  I  can  not  tell  you." 

They  w(y-e  silent  for  some  moments.  Archi- 
bald Floyd  looked  imploringly;  at  his  child, 
but  she  did  not  answer  that  earnest  gaze. 
She  stood  before  him  with  a  proudly  down- 
cast look  ;  the  eyelids  drooping  over  the  dark 
eyes,  not  in  shame,  not  in  humiliation,  only 
in  the  stern  determination  to  avoid  beinij 
subdued  by  the  .sight  of  her  father's  distress^. 
"  Aurora,"  he  said  at  last,  '•  why  not  take 
the  wisest  and  the  safest  stej)  ?  Why  not  tell 
John  Mellish  the  truth  ?  Tlie  danger  would 
disappear;  the  difliculty  would  be  overcome. 
If  you  are  persecuted  by  this  low  ral)ble,  who 
so  lit  as  he  to  act  for  you  ?  Tell  him,  Aurora 
—tell  him  all !" 
"  No,  no,  no  !" 

She  lifted  her  hands,  and  clasped  them 
upon  her  pale  face. 

'•  No,  no ;  »ot  for  all  this  wide  \vorld  !"  she 
cried. 

"  Aurora,"  said  Ai-chibald  Floyd,  with  a 
gathering  sternness  upon  his  face,  which  over- 
sj)read  the  old  man's  benevolent  countenance 
like  some  dark  cloud,  "  Aurora — God  forgive 
me  for  saying  such  words  to  my  own  child — 
but  I  must  insi.*it  upon  your  telling  me  that 
this  i3  no  new  infatuation,  no  new  madness, 
which  leads  you  to — "  He  was  unable  to 
finish  his  sentence. 

Mr.s.  Mellish  dro'{:>ped  her  hands  from  before 
her  face,  and  looked  at  him  with  her  eyes 
flashing  fire,  and  her  cheeks  in  a  crimson 
blaze. 

j  "  Father,"  she  cried,  "  how  dare  you  ask  me 
such  a  question  ?  New  infatuation  I  New 
[madness!  Have  I  suffered  so  little,  do  you 
I  think,  from  the  folly  of  my  youth  ?  Have  I 
I  paid  so  small  a  price  for  the  mistake  of  my 
1  girlhood  that  you  should  have  cause  to  say 
I  these  words  to  me  to-night  ?  Do  I  come  of  so 
j  bad  a  race,"  she  said,  pointing  indignantly  to 
her  mother's  portrait,  "  that  you  should  think 
I  so  vilely  of  me  ?  Do  I — " 
j  Her  tragical  appeal  was  rising  to  its  clima.x, 
when  she  dropped  suddenly  at  lier  father's 
i  feet,  and  burst  into  a  tempest  of  sobs. 
I  "  Papa,  papa,  pity  me,"  she  cried,  "  pity 
I  me  I" 

'      He  raised  her  in  his  arms,  and  drew  her  to 

]  him,  and  comforted  her,  as  he  had  comforted 

her  for  the  loss  of  a  Scotch  terrier-pup  twelve 

years  before,  when  she  was  small  enough  to 

I  sit  on  his  knee,  and  nestle  her  head  in  his 

waistcoat. 

"  Pity  you,  my  dear  1"  he  said.  "  What  is 
I  there  I  would  not  do  for  you  to  save  you  one 
I  moment's  sorrow  '.■'  If  my  worthless  life  could 
I  help  you  ;  if — " 


98 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


''  You  will  wive  mc  the  money,  papa  ?"  she 
asked,  looking  up  at  him  half  coaxingly 
thi'digh  her  tears. 

"  Yes,  my  darling,  to-morrow  morning." 

■'  In  bank-notes  '?" 

"  In  any  manner  you  please.  But,  Aurora, 
why  sec  these  people  ?  Why  listen  to  their 
disgraceful  demands  ?  Why  notf  tell  the 
truth  ?" 

"  Ail !  why,  indeed  !"  she  said,  thoughtfully. 
"  Ask  me  no  questions,  dear  papa,  but  let  me 
have  the  money  to-morrow,  and  I  promise  you 
that  this  shall  be  the  very  last  you  hear  of  my 
old  troubles." 

She  made  this  promise  with  such  perfect 
confidence  that  her  father  was  inspired  with  a 
faint  raj-  of  hope. 

"Come,  darling  papa,"'  she  said,  "your 
room  is  near  mine ;  let  us  go  up  stairs  to- 
gether." 

She  entwined  her  arms  in  his,  and  led  him 
up  the  broad  staircase,  only  parting  from  him 
at  the  door  of  his  room. 

Mr.  Floyd  summoned  his  daughter  into  the 
.•^tudy  early  the  next  morning,  while  Talbot 
Bulstrodu  was  opening  his  letters,  and  Lucy 
strolling  up  and  down  the  terrace  with  John 
3Iellish. 

"  I  have  telegraphed  for  the  money,  my 
darling,"  the  banker  said.  "  One  of  the 
<derks  will  be  here  with  it  by  the  time  we 
liave  finished  breakfast." 

Mr.  Floyd  was  right.  A  card  inscribed 
with  the  name  of  a  Mr.  Greorge  Martin*  was 
brought  to  him  during  breakfast. 

"  Mr.  Martin  will  be  good  enough  to  wait 
in  my  study,"  he  said. 

Aui-ora  and  her  father  found  the  clerk 
seated  at  the  open  window,  looking  adrair- 
ingl}-  through  festoons  of  foliage,  which  clus- 
tered round  the  frame  of  the  lattice,  into  the 
richly-cultivated  garden.  Felden  Woods  was 
a  sacred  spot  in  the  eyes  of  the  junior  clerks 
in  Lombard  street,  and  a  drive  to  Beckenham 
in  a  Hansom  cab  on  a  fine  summer's  morning, 
to  say  nothing  of  guch  chance  refreshment  as 
pound-cake  and  old  Madeira,  or  cold  fowl 
and  Scotch  ale,  was  considered  no  small 
treat. 

Mr.  GeorgC'  Martin,  who  was  laboring  un- 
der the  temporary  affliction  of  being  only 
nineteen  yesjvs  of  age,  rose  in  a  confused 
ilutter  of  respect  and  surprise,  and  blushed 
very  violently  at  sight  of  Mrs.  Mellish, 

Aurora  respondtnl  to  his  reverential  salute 
with  such  a  pleasant  nod  as  she  might  have 
bestowed  upon  the  younger  dogs  in  the  stable- 
yard,  and  seated  herself  opposite  to  him  at 
the  little  table  by  the  window.  It  was  such 
an  excruciatingly  narrow  table  that  Auroi'a's 
muslin  dress  rustled  against  the  drab  trow- 
sers  of  the  junior  clei*k  as  Mrs.  Mellish  sat 
down. 

The  young  man  unlocked  a  little  morocco 
pouch  which  he  wore  suspended  from  a  strap 


across  his  shoulder,  and  produced  a  roll  of 
crisp  notes ;  so  crisp,  so  white  and  new,  that, 
in  their  unsullied  freshness,  they  looked  more 
like  notes  on  the  Bank  of  Elegance  than  the 
circulating  medium  of  this  busy,  money-mak- 
ing nation. 

"  I  have  brought  the  cash  for  which  you 
telegraphed,  sir,"  said  the  clerk. 

"  Very  good,  Mr.  Martin,"  answered  the 
banker.  "  Here  is  my  check  ready  written 
for  you.     The  notes  are — " 

"  Twenty  fifties,  twenty-five  twenties,  fifty 
tens,"  the  clerk  said,  glibly. 

Mr.  Floyd  took  the  little  bundle  of  tissue- 
paper,  and  counted  the  notes  with  the  pro- 
fessional rapidity  which  he  still  retained. 

"Quite  correct,"  he  said,  ringing  the  bell, 
which  was  speedily  answered  by  a  simpering 
footman.  "  Give  this  gentleman  some  luncii. 
You  will  find  the  Madeira  very  good,"  he 
added,  kindly,  turning  to  the  blushing  junior  ; 
'■  it 's  a  wine  that  is  dying  out,  and  by  the  time 
you  're  my  age,  Mr.  Martin,  you  won't  be  able- 
to  get  such  a  glass  as  I  can  offer  you  to-dayj  ; 
Good-morning." 

Mr.  George  Martin  clutched  his  hat  nei^^^^' 
vously  from  the  empty  chair  on  which  he  had 
placed  it,  knocked  down  a  heap  of  pjipers  with 
his  elbow,  bowed,  blushed,  and  stumbled  out 
of  the  room,  under  convoy  of  the  simpering' 
footman,  who  nourished  a  profound  contempt 
for  the  young  men  from  the  h'oflice. 

"  Now,  my  darling,"  said  Mr.  Floyd,  "  here 
is  the  money.  Though,  mind,  I  protest 
against — '' 

"  No,  no,  papa,  not  a  word,"  she  inter- 
rupted ;  "  I  thought  that  was  all  settled  last 
night." 

He  sighed,  with  the  same  weary  sigh  as  oix' 
the  night  before,  and,  seating  himself  at  his- 
desk,  dipped  a  pen  into  the  ink. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  papa  ?" 

"  I  'm  only  going  to  take  the  numbers  of  the 
notes." 

"  There  is  no  occasion." 

"There  is  always  occasion  to  be  business- 
like," said  the  old  man,  firmly,  as  he  checked' 
the  numbers  of  the  notes  one  by  one  upon  a 
sheet  of  paper  with  rapid  precision. 

Aurora  paced  up  and  down  the  room  im- 
patiently while  this  operation  was  going  for--' 
ward. 

"  How  diflicult  it  has  been  to  me  to  get  this"^ 
money  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  If  I  had  been  the 
wife  and  daughter  of  two  of  the  poorest  men 
in  Christendom,  I  could  scarcely  have  had 
more  trouble  about  this  two  thousand  pounds. 
And  now  you  keep  me  here  while  you  num- 
ber the  notes,  not  one  of  which  is  likely  to  bie 
exchanged  in  this  country."  ' 

"  I  learned  to  be  business-like  when  I  wa» 
very  young,  Aurora,"  answered  Mr.  Floyd, 
"  and  I  have  never  been  able  to  forget  my  old' 
habits."  • 

He  completed  his  task  in  defiance  of  his' 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


99 


(laughter's  impatienoe,  and  handed   her   the  J 
packet  of  notes  when  he  had  done. 

"  I  will  keep  the  list  of  numbers,  my  dear,"  j 
he  said.     "  If  I  were  to  give  it  to  you,  you 
would  most  likely  lose  it." 

He  folded  the  sheet  of  paper,  and  put  it  in  a 
drawer  of  his  desk. 

"  Twenty  years  hence,  Aurora,"  he  said, 
"  should  I  live  so  long,  I  should  be  able  to  pro- 
duce this  paper,  if  it  were  wanted." 

"  Wliich  it  never  will  be,  you  dear  method- 
ical papa,"  answered  Avn-ora.  "  IMy  troubles 
are  ended  now.  Yes,"  she  added,  in  a  graver 
tone,  "  I  pray  God  that  my  troubles  may  be 
ended  now." 

She  encircled  hor  arms  about  her  father's 
neck,  and  kissed  him  tenderly. 

"  I  must  leave  you,  dearest,  to-day,"  s1m» 
said;  "you  must  not  ask  nie  wliy  —  you  murt 
ask  me  nothing.  You  must  only  love  and 
trust  me — as  my  poor  John  trusts  me  —  faith- 
fidly,  liopefnlly,  through  everything." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

CAPTAIN     PRODDKR. 

While  the  Doncaster  express  was  carrying 
]\Ir.  and  Mrs.  Mellish  nortliward,  another  ex- 
press journeyed  from  Liverpool  to  London 
with  its  load  of  passengers. 

Among  these  passengers  there  was  a  cer- 
tain broatl-shouldered  and  rather  bull-necked 
individual,  wiio  attracteil  considerable  atten- 
tion during  the  journey,  and  was  an  object  of 
some  interest  to  his  fellow-travellers  and  the 
railway  officials  at  tlie  two  or  three  stations 
where  the  train  stopped. 

He  was  a  man  of  about  fifty  years  of  age, 
but  his  years  were  worn  very  lightly,  and 
only  recorded  by  some  wandering  streaks  and 
patches  of  gray  among  his  thick  blue-black 
stubble  of  hair.  His  complexion,  naturally 
dark,  had  become  of  such  a  bronzed  and  cop- 
])i.'ry  tint  by  perpetual  exposure  to  meridian 
suns,  tropical  hot  winds,  the  fiery  breath  of 
the  simoon,  and  the  many  other  inconven- 
iences attendant  upon  an  out-door  life,  as  to 
cause  him  to  be  frequently  mistaken  lor  the 
inhabitant  of  some  one  of  those  countries  in 
which  the  complexion  of  the  natives  fluctu- 
ates between  burnt  siinna,  Indian  red,  and 
Vandyke  brown.  But  it  was  rarely  long 
before  he  took  an  opportunity  to  rectify  this 
mistake,  an<l  to  express  that  hearty  contempt 
and  aversion  for  all_/i<rr!Her.N'  wliich  is  natural 
to  the  unspoileil  and  unsophisticated  Briton. 

Upon  tills  [(articular  o(;casion  he  had  not 
been  half  an  hour  in  the  society  of  his  fellow- 
passengers  before  he  had  informed  them  that 
he  was  a  native  of  Liverpool,  and  the  captain 
of  a  merchant  vessel,  trading,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  he  said,  everywhere;  that  he  had 
run  awav  from  his  father  and  his  home  at  a 


very  early  period  of  his  life,  and  had  shifted 
for  himself  in  difierent  parts  of  the  globe  (!ver 
since  ;  that  his  Christian  name  was  Samuel, 
and  his  surname  Prodder,  and  that  his  father 
had  been,  like  himself,  a  captain  in  the  mer- 
chant service.  He  chewed  so  much  tobacco, 
and  drank  so  much  fiery  Jamaica  rum  from  a 
pocket-pistol  in  the  intervals  of  his  cotvversa- 
tion,that  the  first-class  compartment  in  which 
he  sat  was  odorous  with  the  eompound  per- 
fume. Rut  he  was  such  a  hearty,  loud-spoken 
fellow,  and  there  was  such  a  pleasant  twinkle 
in  his  black  eyes,  that  the  ])assengers  (with 
the  exception  of  one  crusty  old  lady)  treated 
him  with  great  good-humor,  and  listened  very 
patiently  to  his  talk. 

"  Chewin'  a'n't  smokin,'  you  know,  is  it?" 
he  said,  with  a  great  guffaw,  as  he  cut  him- 
self a  terrible  block  of  Cavendish ;  "  and 
railway  companies  .a'n't  got  any  laws  against 
that.  They  can  put  a  fellow's  pipe  out,  but 
he  can  chew  his  (piid  in  their  faces ;  though  I 
won't  say  which  is  wust  for  their  carpets, 
neither." 

I  am  sorry  to  be  compelled  to  confess  that 
this  brown -visaged  merchant- captain,  who 
said  wust  and  chewed  Cavendish  tol)ae<'o, 
was  uncle  to  Mrs.  John  Mellisii,  of  Mellish 
Park  ;  and  that  the  motive  for  this  vtM-y  jour- 
ney was  neither  more  nor  less  than  his  desire 
to  become  accjuainteil  with  his  niece. 

He  imparted  this  fact  —  as  well  as  mucii 
other  information  relating  to  himself,  his 
tastes,  habits,  adventures,  opinions,  and  sen- 
timent;3 — to  his  travelling  companions  in  the 
course  of  the  journey. 

''  Do  you  know  for  why  I  'm  going  to  Lon- 
don by  this  identical  train  ?'  he  asked  j^en- 
erally,  as  the  passengers  settled  themselves 
into  their  places  after  taking  refreshment  at 
Rugby. 

The  gentlemen  looked  over  their  newsj)a- 
pers  at  the  talkative  sailor,  and  a  young  lady 
looked  up  from  her  book,  but  nobody  volun- 
teered to  speculate  an 'opinion  upon  the  main- 
1  spring  of  Mr.  Prodder's  actions. 
1      "  I  '11  tell  you  for  why,"  resumed  th(!  mer- 
1  chant-captain,  aildressing  the  a.ssembly  as  if  in 
!  answer   to   their   eager  cpiestioning.     "  I  'm 
I  going  to  see  my  niece,  which  I  have  never 
seen  before.     When  I  ran  away  from  father's 
I  ship,  the   Ventrtr'aome,  nigh  upon  forty  years 
!  ago,  and  went  aboard  the  craft  of  a  captaia 
1  by  the  name  of  Mobley,  wliich  was  a  good 
I  master  to  me  for  many  a  day,  I  had  a  little 
sister  as  I  had  left  behind  at  Liverpool,  which 
was  dearer  to  me  than  my  life."     He  paused 
j  to  refresh  himself  with  rather  a  demonstia- 
:  five  sip  from  the  pocket-pistol.    "But  W'j/ou" 
he  continued  generally,  "  if  i/ou  ha'l  a  father 
j  that  'd  fetch  you  a  clout  of  the  head  as  soon  as 
look  at  you,  you  'd  run  away,  perhaps,  and  so 
did  I.      I  took  the  oi)[iortunity  to  be  missln' 
'  one  night  as  father  was  settin*  sail  from  Yar- 
'  mouth  Harbor;  and,  not  settin'  that  wonder- 


100 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


ful  store  by  me  wliich  some  folks  do  by  their  • 
only  >ions,'  he  shipped  his  anchor  without  ; 
st.opi)in'  to  ask  many  questions,  and  left  me  ] 
hidin'  in  one  of  the  little  alleys  which  cut  the 
town  of  Yarmouth  throu^ifh  and  across  like 
they  cut  the  cakes  they  make  there.  There  j 
was  manv  in  Yarmouth  that  knew  me,  and  I 
there  was  n't  one  that  did  n't  say,  '  Sarve  him  ' 
right,'  when  they  heard  how  T  'd  given  father  ; 
the  slip,  and  the  next  day  Cap'en  Mobley  ; 
irave  me  a  berth  as  cabin -bo}'  about  the  | 
Mariar  Annn."  I 

]\lr.  Prodder  again  paused  to  partake  ofj 
refrcsinnent  from  his  portable  spirit  store,  and  j 
this  time  politely  handed  tlie  pocket-pistol  to  j 
tlie  company.  j 

"  Now,  perhaps  you  '11  not  believe  me,"  he 
r«\suined,  after  his  friendly  otfer  had  been  re-  | 
fused,  and  tlie  Avicker-covcred  vessel  replaced 
in  his  capacious  pocket  —  "you  won't  perluips 
believe  me  when  I  tell  you,  as  I  tell  you  can- 
did, that  up  to  last  Saturday  week  I  never 
could  find  the  time  nor  tlie  opportunity  to  go 
back  to  Liverpool,  and  ask  after  the  little  sis- 
ter that  I  'd  left  no  higher  than  the  kitchen- 
table,  and  tliat  had  cried  fit  to  break  her  poor 
little  heart  when  I  went  away.  But  whether 
yr*u  believe  it  or  whether  you  don"t,  it  's  as 
true  as  gospel,"  cried  the  sailor,  thumping 
hi.s  ponderous  fist  upon  the  padded  elbow  of 
tlie  compartment  in  which  he  sat ;  "  it  's 
a.'s  true  as  gospel.  I  've  coasted  America, 
North  and  South.  I  've  carried  West-Indian 
goods  to  the  East  Indies,  and  East-Indian 
goods  to  the  West  Indies.  I  've  traded  in 
Norwegian  goods  between  Norway  and  Hull. 
I  've  carried  Sheffield  goods  from  Hull  to 
South  America.  I  've  traded  between  all 
manner  of  countries  and  all  manner  of  docks; 
but  somehow  or  other  I  've  never  had  the 
time  to  spare  to  go  on  shore  at  Liverpool,  and 
find  out  the  narrow  little  street  in  which  I 
left  my  sister  Eliza,  no  higher  than  the  table, 
more  than  forty  years  ago,  until  last  Saturday 
was  a  week.  Last  Saturday  was  a  week  I 
toucheil  at  Liverpool  with  a  cargo  of  furs  and 
poll-{)arrots — what  you  may  call  fancy  goods; 
ajid  I  said  to  my  mate,  I  said,  '  I  '11  tell  you 
what  I  '11  do.  Jack;  I  '11  go  ashore  and  see 
my  little  sister  Eliza.'" 

He  paused  once  more,  and  a  softening- 
change  came  over  the  brightness  of  his  black 
eyes.  This  time  he  did  not  apply  himself 
to  the  pocket-pistol.  Tiiis  time  he  brushed 
the  back  of  his  brown  hand  across  liis  eye- 
lashes, and  brought  it  away  with  a  drop  or 
two  of  moisture  glittering  upon  the  bronzed 
skin.  Even  his  voice  was  changed  when  he 
continued,  and  had  mellowed  to  a  richer  and 
more  mournful  depth,  until  it  very  much  re- 
sembled the  melodious  utterance  which  twen- 
ty-one years  before  had  assisted  to  render 
Mi.ss  Eliza  Percival  the  popular  tragedian  of 
the  Preston  and  Bradford  circuit. 

"God  forgive  me,"  continued  the  sailor,  in 


that  altered  voice;  "bat  throughout  my  voy- 
ages I  *d  never  thought  of  my  sister  Eliza 
but  in  two  ways  —  sometimes  one,  .sometimes 
t'  other.  One  way  of  thinking  of  her,  and 
expecting  to  see  her,  was  as  the  little  sister 
that  I  'd  left,  not  altered  by  so  much  as  one 
lock  of  her  hair  being  changed  from  the  iden- 
tical curl  into  which  it  was  twisted  the  morn- 
ing she  cried  and  clung  about  me  on  board 
the  Ve7itur\'<ome,  having  come  aboard  to  wish 
father  and  me  good-by.  Perhaps  I  ofteuest 
thought  of  her  in  this  way.  Anyhow,  it  was 
in  this  way,  and  no  other,  that  I  always  saw 
her  In  my  dreams.  The  other  way  of  think- 
ing of  her,  and  expectin'  to  see  her,  was  as  a 
handsome,  full-grown,  buxom  married  woman, 
with  a  troop  of  saucy  children  hanging  on  to 
her  apron-string,  and  every  one  of  'em  askin' 
what  Uncle  Samuel  had  brought  'em  fi"om 
foreign  parts.  Of  course  this  fancy  was  the 
most  rational  of  the  two ;  but  the  other  fancy, 
of  the  little  child  with  the  long,  black,  curly 
hair,  would  come  to  me  very  often,  especially 
at  night,  when  all  was  (juiet  aboard,  and 
when  I  took  the  wheel  in  a  spell  while  the 
helmsman  turned  in.  Lord  bless  you,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  many  a  time  of  a  starlight 
night,  when  we  've  been  in  them  latitudes 
where  the  stars  are  brighter  than  common, 
I  've  seen  the  floating  mists  upon  the  water 
take  the  very  shape  of  that  light  figure  of  a 
little  girl  in  a  white  piuafore,  and  come  skip- 
ping toward  me  across  the  waves.  I  don't 
mean  that  I  've  seen  a  ghost,  yoU  know,  but  I 
mean  that  I  could  have  seen  one  If  I  'd  had  the 
mind,  and  that  I  've  seen  as  much  of  a  one  as 
folks  ever  do  see  upon  this  earth  —  the  ghosts 
of  their  own  memories  and  their  own  sorrows, 
mixed  up  with  the  mists  of  the  sea  or  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  wavin'  back'ard  and 
Ibr'ard  in  the  moonlight,  or  a  white  curtain 
agen  a  window,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
VVell,  I  was  such  a  precious  old  fool  with  these 
fancies  and  fantigs" — Mr.  Samuel  Prodder 
seemed  rather  to  pride  himself  upon  the  lat- 
ter word,  as  something  out  of  the  common  — 
"  that  when  I  went  ashore  at  Liverpool  last 
Saturday  was  a  week,  I  could  n't  keep  my 
eyes  oft"  the  little  girls  in  white  pinafores  as 
passed  me  by  In  the  streets,  thinkin'  to  see 
my  Eliza  skippin'  along,  with  her  black  curls 
flyin'  in  the  wind,  and  a  bit  of  chalk,  to  play 
hop-scotch  with,  in  her  hand;  so  I  was  obliged 
to  say  to  myself,  quite  serious,  '  Now,  Sam- 
uel Prodder,  the  little  girl  you  're  a  lookiu' 
for  must  be  fifty  years  of  age,  If  she  "s  a  day, 
and  It  '(i  more  than  likely  that  she  'a  left  off 
playin'  hop-scotch  and  wearin'  white  pinafores 
by  this  time.'  If  I  had  n't  kept  repeatin' 
this,  internally  like,  all  the  way  I  went,  I 
should  have  stopped  half  the  little  girls  in  Liv- 
erpool to  ask  'em  if  their  name  was  Eliza,  and 
If  they  'd  ever  had  a  brother  as  ran  away  and 
was  lost.  I  had  only  one  thought  of  how  to 
set  about  findin'  her,  and  that  was  to  walk 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


101 


straight  to  the  back  street  In  which  I  remem- 
bered leavin'  her  forty  years  before.  I  VI  no 
thought  that  those  forty  yeais  could  make 
any  more  change  than  to  change  her  from  a 
girl  to  a  woman,  and  it  seemed  almost  strange 
to  me  that  they  could  make  as  nnudi  change 
as  that.  There  was  one  thing  I  never  thought 
of;  and  if  my  heart  beat  loud  and  (julck  when 
I  knocked  at  the  little  front  door  of  the  very 
identical  house  in  which  we  M  lodged,  it  was 
with  nothing  but  hope;  and  joy.  The  forty 
years  that  had  sent  railways  sj)inning  all  over 
Enorland  had  n't  made  niucdi  diflerenee  in  the 
old  house  ;  it  was  forty  3-ears  dirtier,  perliaps. 
and  forty  years  shabbier,  and  it  stood  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  town  instead  of  on  the  edge 
of  the  open  country;  but,  exceptin'  that,  it 
was  pretty  much  the  same ;  and  i  expected  to 
see  the  sauie  landlady  come  to  open  the  door, 
with  the  same  dirty  artificial  tlowers  in  her 
caj),  and  the  same  old  slipix-rs  down  at  heel 
.serapin'  after  her  along  the  bit  (;>f  oil-cloth. 
If  gave  me  a  kind  of  a  turn  when  I  did  n't 
see  this  identical  landlady,  though  she  'd  have 
been  turned  a  hundred  years  old  if  she  'd 
been  alive;  ami  I  might  have  prejiared  my- 
self for  the  disappointment  if  I  'd  thought 
of  that,  but  I  had  n't ;  and  when  the  door 
was  opened  by  a  A'oung  woman  with  sandy 
hair,  brushed  backward  as  if  she  'd  been  a 
Chinese,  and  no  eyebrows  to  speak  of,  I  did 
feel  disappointed.  Tlie  young  woman  had  a 
baby  in  her  arms  —  a  black-eyed  baby,  with 
its  eyes  opened  so  wide  that  it  seemed  as  if  it 
had  been  very  mu<di  surprised  with  the  look 
of  things  on  first  comin'  into  the  world,  and 
had  n'tcjuite  recovered  itself  yet;  so  T  thought 
to  myself,  as  soon  as  I  clapped  eyes  on  the 
little  one,  why,  as  sure  as  a  gun,  that  's  my 
sister  Eliza's  baby,  and  my  sister  Eliza  's  mar- 
ried, and  lives  iiere  still.  But  the  young 
woman  had  never  heard  the  name  of  Prod- 
der,  and  <Ii(l  n't  think  there  was  anybody  in 
the  neiglil)orhooil  as  ever  had.  I  felt  my 
heart,  which  had  been  beatin'  louder  and 
([uicker  every  minute.  sto[)  all  of  a  sudtlen 
when  she  .said  this,  and  seem  to  ilrop  down 
like  a  dead  weight;  but  T  thanked  her  for  her 
civil  answers  to  my  cpiestions,  and  went  on  to 
the  next  house  to  impiirc  there.  I  might 
have  saved  myself  the  trouble,  for  I  made  the 
same  infjuirics  at  every  house  on  each  side  of 
the  street,  going  straight  from  door  to  door, 
till  the  people  thought  I  was  a  sea-farin'  tax- 
gatherer;  but  nobody  had  ever  heaxd  the 
name  of  Proddcr,  and  the  oldest  inhabitant 
in  the  street  had  n't  lived  there  t<!n  years.  1 
was  quite  disheartened  when  I  left  the  neigh- 
borhood, whiih  had  onc.e  been  so  fimiliar,  and 
whicli  seemed  so  strange,  and  small,  and  mean, 
and  shaliby  now.  I  'd  had  so  little  thought 
of  failing  to  find  Eliza  in  the  very  ho\ise  in 
which  I  'd  left  her,  that  I  'd  made  no  plans 
beyond.  So  I  wa.«  brought  to  a  dead  stop; 
and  I  went  back  to  the  tavern  where  I  M  lei't 


my  carpet-bag,  and  I  had  a  chop  brought  me 
for  jmy  dinner,  and  I  sat  with  my  knife  and 
fork  before  me  thinkin'  what  T  was  t^  do  next. 
When  Eliza  and  I  had  parted,  forty  years 
before,  I  remembered  father  leaving  her  In 
charge  of  a  sister  of  njy  mother's  (my  poor 
mother  had  been  dead  a  year),  and  I  thought 
to  mystdf,  the  only  chance  there  Is  left  for  me 
now  is  to  find  Aunt  Sarah." 

By  the  time  Mr.  Prodder  arrived  at  this 
stage  of  his  narrative  his  listeners  had  drop- 
ped otr  gradually,  the  gentlemen  returning  to 
their  news]ia))ers,  and  the  young  lady  to  her 
book,  until  the  merchant-captain  found  him- 
self reduced  to  communicate  his  adventures 
to  one  good-natured  looking  young  fellow, 
who  seemed  interested  in  the  brown -faced 
.sailor,  and  encouraged  him  every  now  and 
then  with  an  assenting  nod  or  a  friendly  "Ay, 
j  ay,  to  be  sure." 

I  "  The  only  chance  I  can  see,  ses  I,"  contin- 
1  ued  Mr.  Prodder,  "is  to  find  Aunt  Sarah.  I 
j  found  Aunt  Sarah.  She  'd  been  keepin'  a 
!  shop  in  the  general  line  when  1  went  away 
I  forty  years  ago,  and  she  was  keepin'  the  same 
)  shop  in  the  general  line  when  I  came  back 
1  last  Saturday  week ;  and  thi-re  was  tlie  same 
fly-blown  handbills  of  shijjs  that  was  to  sail 
immediate,  and  that  had  sailed  two  years  ago, 
aecordin' to  the  date  upon  the  bills;  and  the 
same  wooden  sugar -loaves  wrapped  up  in 
white  paper;  and  the  same  lattice-work  gate, 
with  a  bell  that  rang  as  loud  as  if  it  was  meant 
to  give  the  alarm  to  all  Liverpool  as  well  .as 
to  my  Aunt  Sarah  In  the  parlor  behind  the 
shop.  The  poor  ohl  soul  was  standing  behind 
the  counter,  serving  two  ounces  of  tea  to  a 
customer  when  1  went  in.  Forty  yenrs  had 
made  so  much  change  In  her  that  I  should  n't 
have  known  her  If  I  had  n't  known  the  >hop. 
She  wore  black  curls  upon  her  forehead,  aiul 
a  brooch  like  a  brass  butterfly  in  the  niiddh- 
of  the  curls,  where  the  ])arting  ouj^hf  to  have 
been  ;  and  she  wore  a  l)earil ;  and  the  curLs 
were  false,  but  the  beard  was  n't;  and  her 
voice  was  very  deep,  and  rather  manh'.  and 
she  seemed  to  me  to  have  grown  manly  alto 
gether  in  the  forty  years  that  I  *d  been  away. 
She  tied  up  the  two  ounces  of  tea,  and  then 
askerl  me  what  I  pleased  to  want.  T  told  her 
that  I  was  little  Sam,  and  that  I  wanted  my 
sister  Eliza." 

The  merchant-captain  paused  an<l  looked 
out  of  the  window  for  upward  of  fiv»;  minutes 
before  he  resumed  his  story.  Wiien  he  did 
resume  it,  he  spoke  in  a  very  low  voice,  and 
in  short,  detached  s.-ntences,  as  if  he  cf)uld  n't 
trust  himself  with  long  ones,  lor  fear  he  should 
break  down  in  the  miildle  of  them. 

"Eliza  had  been  <lead  one -and- twenty 
years.  Aunt  Sarah  told  me  all  al)0ut  it. 
She  '<1  trieil  the  artificial  flower-makin',  and 
she  had  n't  liked  it.  And  she  turned  play- 
aetress.  And  when  she  was  nine-and-twenty 
slie 'd  married  —  -he'd   married  a  u'entleman 


102 


AUIIOKA  FLOYD. 


that  had  no  end  of  money,  and  she  'd  gone  to 
live  at  a  fine  place  somewhere  in  Kent.  I  've 
got  the  name  of  it  wrote  down  in  my  minno- 
randum-book.  But  she  'd  been  a  gOf>d  and 
generous  friend  to  Aunt  Sarah ;  and  Aunt 
Sarali  was  to  have  gone  to  Kent  to  see  lier, 
;unl  to  stop  all  tlie  summer  with  her.  But 
while  aunt  was  getting  ready  to  go  for  that 
very  visit,  my  sister  Eliza  died,  leaving  a 
daughter  behind  hor,  which  is  the  niece  that 
I  *m  going  to  see.  I  sat  down  upon  the  three- 
legged  wooden  stool  agjiinst  the  counter,  and 
hid  my  face  in  my  hands ;  and  I  thought  of 
tlie  little  girl  that  I  'd  seen  playin'  at  hop- 
scotcli  forty  years  before,  until  I  thought  my 
heart  would  burst;  but  I  did  n't  shed  a  tear. 
Aunt  Sarah  took  a  big  l)i-ooeh  out  of  lier  col- 
lar, and  showed  me  a  ring  of  l)lac-k  hair  be- 
hind a  bit  of  glass,  witli  a  gohl  frame  round  it. 
'  Mr  Floyd  had  this  brooch  made  a  purpose 
for  me,'  she  said;  'he  has  always  been  a  lib- 
eral gentleman  to  me,  and  he  comes  down  to 
Liverpool  once  in  two  or  three  years,  and 
takes  tea  with  me  in  yon  back  parlor;  and  I 
've  no  call  to  keep  a  shop,  for  he  allows  me  a 
handsome  income ;  but  I  should  die  of  the 
mopes  if  it  was  n't  for  the  business.'  There 
was  Eliza's  name  and  the  date  of  her  death 
engraved  upon  the  back  of  the  brooch.  I 
tried  to  remember  where  I  'd  been,  and  what 
I  'd  been  doing  that  year.  But  I  could  n't, 
sir.  All  the  life  that  I  looked  back  upon 
seemed  muddled  and  mi.xed  up,  like  a  dream; 
and  I  could  only  think  of  the  little  sister  I  'd 
said  good-by  to  aboard  the  Venturesome  forty 
years  before.  I  got  round  by  little  and  little, 
and  T  was  able  half  an  hour  afterwai'd  to  list- 
en to  Aunt  Sarah's  talk.  8iie  was  nigli  upon 
seventy,  poor  old  soul,  and  she  'd  always  been 
a  good  one  to  talk.  She  asked  me  if  it  was 
n  t  a  great  thing  for  the  family  that  P^liza  had 
made  such  a  mat(;h;  and  if  I  was  n't  proud  to 
think  that  my  niece  was  a  young  heiress,  that 
si)oke  all  manner  of  languages,  and  rode  in 
her  own  carriage;  and  if  tiiat  ought  n't  to  be 
a  con.solation  to  meV  But  I  told  her  that  I  'd 
rather  have  found  my  sister  married  to  the 
poorest  man  iu  Liverpool,  and  alive  and  well, 
to  bid  me  welcome  back  to  my  native  town. 
Aunt  Sarah  said  if  those  were  my  religious 
oj)inions,  she  did  n't  know  what  to  say  to  me. 
And  slie  showed  me  a  pictun^  of  Eliza's  tomb 
in  Beckenham  chuich -yard,  that  had  been 
painted  expressly  for  her  by  Mr.  Floyd's  or- 
ders. Floyd  was  the  name  of  Eliza's  hus- 
y)and.  And  then  she  showed  me  a  pit.'ture  of 
Miss  Floyd,  the  heiress,  at  the  age  of  ten, 
which  was  the  image  of  Eliza,  all  but  tlie 
pinafore;  and  it  's  that  very  Mi.<s  Floyd  that 
J  'm  going  to  see." 

'•  And  I  dare  say,"  said  the  kind  listener, 
"  tliat  Miss  Floyd  will  be  very  much  pleased 
to  .see  her  sailor  uncle." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  think  she  will,"  answered  the 
captain.     "  I  don't  say  it  from  any  j)ride  I 


take  in  mysi-lf,  Lord  knows;  for  I  know  I  'm 
a  rough  and  ready  sort  of  a  chap,  that  'ud  be 
no  great  ornament  in  a  young  lady's  drawing- 
room  :  but  if  Eliza's  daughter  's  anything 
like  Eliza,  I  know  what  she  '11  say  and  what 
she  '11  do  as  well  as  if  I  see  her  saying  it  and 
doing  it.  She  '11  (dap  her  pretty  little  hands 
together,  and  she  '11  clasp  her  arms  round  my 
neck,  and  she  '11  say,  'Lor,  uncle,  I  am  so 
glad  to  see  you.'  And  when  I  tell  her  that  I 
was  her  mother's  only  brother,  and  that  me 
and  her  mother  was  very  fond  of  one  another, 
she  '11  burst  out  a  cryin',  and  she  '11  hide  her 
pretty  face  upon  my  shoulder,  and  she  '11  sob 
as  if  her  dear  little  heart  was  going  to  break 
for  love  of  the  mother  that  she  never  saw. 
That  's  what  she  '11  do,"  said  Captain  Prod- 
der,  •'  and  I  don't  think  the  truest  born  lady 
that  ever  was  coidd  do  any  better." 

The  good-natured  traveller  heard  a  good 
deal  more  fi'om  the  captain  of  his  plans  for 
going  to  Beckenham  to  claim  his  niece's  affec- 
tions, in  spite  of  all  the  fatheis  in  the  world, 

"Mr.  Floyd  's  a  good  man,  I  dare  say,  sir," 
he  said ;  "but  he  's  kept  his  daughter  apart 
from  her  aunt  Sarah,  and  it  's  but  likely  he  '11 
try  to  keej)  her  fi'om  me.  But  if  he  does, 
he  '11  find  he  's  got  a  toughish  customer  to 
deal  with  in  Captain  Samuel  Prodder." 

The  merchant-captain  r(?ached  Beckenham 
as  the  evening  shadows  were  deepening  among 
the  Felden  oaks  and  beeches,  and  the  long 
rays  of  red  sunshine  fading  slowly  out  in  the 
low  sky.  lie  drove  up  to  the  old  red-brick 
mansion  in  a  hired  fly,  and  presented  himself 
at  tlie  hall-door  just  as  Mr.  Floyd  was  leaving 
the  dining-room  to  finish  the  evening  in  his 
lonely  study. 

The  banker  paused  to  glance  with  some 
slight  surjirise  at  the  loosely-clad,  wcathel"- 
beaten  looking  figure  of  the  sailor,  and  me- 
chanically put  his  iiand  among  the  gold  and 
silver  in  his  pocket.  He  thought  the  seafar- 
ing man  had  come  to  present  some  petition 
for  himself  and  his  comrades.  A  lite-boat 
was  wanted  somewhere  on  the  Kentish  coast, 
perhaps,  and  this  good-tempered  looking, 
bronze-colored  man  had  come  to  collect  fund3 
for  the  cliaritable  work. 

He  was  thinking  this,  when,  in  reply  to  the 
town-bred  f(Kitman's  cpiestion,  the  sailor  ut- 
tered t!ie  name  of  Pi-odder ;  and  in  the  one 
moment  of  its  uttei'ance  his  thoughts  flew 
back  over  one-and-twenty  years,  and  he  was 
madly  in  love  with  a  beautiful  actress,  who 
owned  blushingly  to  that  plebeian  cognomen. 
The  banker's  voice  was  faint  and  husky  as  he 
turned  to  tlie  captain  and  bade  him  welcome 
to  Felden  Woods. 

"  Step  this  way,  Mr.  Prodder,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  open  door  of  the  study.  "I 
am  very  glad  to  see  you.  I  —  I —  have  often 
heard  of  you.  You  are  my  dead  wife's  run- 
away brother." 

Even    amid    his   sorrowful   recollection   of 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


103 


that  brief  happiness  of  the  past,  some  natu- 
ral alloy  of  pride  had  its  part,  and  he  closed 
the  study-door  carefully  before  he  said  this, 

"  God  bless  you,  sir,"  he  said,  holding  out 
liis  hand  to  th(^  sailor.  •'!  see  I  am  rijiht. 
Your  eyes  are  like  Elizas.  You  and  yours 
will  always  be  welcome  beneath  my  roof. 
Yes,  Samuel  Prodder  —  you  see  1  know  your 
Christian  name — and  when  I  die  you  will 
find  that  you  have  not  been  forgotten." 

The  captain  tliaiike<l  his  brother-in-law 
heartily,  and  told  him  that  he  neither  asked 
nor  wislied  for  anything  except  permission  to 
see  his  niece,  Aurora  Floyd. 

As  he  made  this  request,  he  looked  toward 
the  door  of  the  littk-  room,  evidently  expect- 
ing that  the  heiress  miglit  enter  at  any  mo- 
ment. He  looked  terribly  disappointed  when 
the  banker  told  him  that  Aurora  was  mar- 
ried, and  lived  near  Doncaster;  l)ut  that,  if 
he  had  happened  to  come  ten  hours  earlier, 
he  would  have  found  her  at  Felden  Wood.s. 

Ah!  wiio  has  not  heard  those  common 
words  'i  Who  has  not  be^n  told  that,  if  they 
had  come  sooner,  or  gone  earlier,  or  hurried 
their  pace,  or  slackened  it,  or  done  something 
tliat  they  have  not  done,  the  whole  course  of 
life  would  have  been  otherwise  ?  AVho  has 
not  looked  back  regretfully  at  the  past,  which, 
differently  fashioned,  would  have  made  the 
present  other  than  it  is  'i  We  think  it  hard 
that  we  can  not  take  the  fabric  of  our  life  to 
pieces,  as  a  mantua-maker  unpicks  her  work, 
and  make  up  the  stuif  another  way.  How 
much  waste  we  might  save  in  the  cloth,  how 
much  better  a  shape  we  might  make  the  gar- 
ment, if  we  on!)-  had  the  right  to  use  our 
scissors  and  needle  again,  and  reiashion  the 
past  by  the  e-xpcriem-e  ol  the  present. 

"To  think,  now,  tliat  I  should  have  been 
comin'  yesterday !"  exclaimed  the  captain, 
"  but  put  off  my  journey  because  it  was  a 
Friday!     If  I  M  only  knowed!" 

Of  course,  Captain  Prodder,  if  you  had 
only  known  what  it  was  not  given  you  to 
know,  you  would,  no  doubt,  have  acted  more 
prudently;  and  so  would  many  other  people. 
It  Mr.  William  Palmer  liad  known  that  de- 
tection was  to  dog  the  footsteps  of  crime, 
and  the  gallows  to  follow  at  the  heels  of 
detection,  he  would  most  likely  have  hesi- 
tated long  before  he  mixi-d  the  strychnine 
pills  for  the  friend  whom,  with  cordial  voi<'e, 
he  was  entreating  to  be  of  good  cheer.  If  the 
speculators  upon  this  year's  Derby  had  known 
tliat  Cara(.;tR«:us  was  to  be  the  winner,  they 
would  scarcely  have  hazarded  their  money 
upon  liuckstonc  and  tlw  Manpiis.  We  spend 
the  best  part  of  our  lives  in  making  mistakes, 
.  and  the  p(»or  remainder  in  retlecting  how  very 
easily  we  might  have  avoided  them. 

Mr.  Floyd  explained,  rather  lanely  per- 
haps, how  it  was  that  the  Liverpool  spinsU-r 
had  never  been  informed  of  her  grand-niece's 
marriage    with   Mr.   John   Mellish;  aad   the 


merchant-captain  announced  his  intention  of 
starting  for  Doncaster  early  the  next  morn- 
ing. 

"  Don't  think  that  I  want  to  intrude  upon 
your  dauglfter,  sir,''  he  said,  as  if  perfectly 
acijuainted  with  the  banker's  nervous  dread  of 
such  a  visit.  "  I  know  her  station  's  high  above 
me,  though  she  's  my  own  sister's  only  child; 
and  I  maki-  no  doubt  that  those  about  her 
would  be  ready  enough  to  turn  up  their  nose.>- 
at  a  poor  old  salt  that  has  been  tossed  and 
tumbled  about  in  every  variety  of  weather 
for  this  forty  year.  I  only  want  to  see  her 
once  in  a  way,  and  to  hear  her  say,  perhaps, 
'  Lor,  uncle,  what  a  rum  old  chap  you  are  !' 
There  !"  exclaimed  Samuel  Prodder,  sudden- 
ly, "  I  think,  if  I  could  only  once  hear  her 
call  me  uncle,  I  could  go  back  to  sea  and  die 
happy,  though  I  never  came  ashore  again." 


'  CHAPTER  XXI. 

I 

1  "  HE  ONLY  SAID  I  AM  A-WF.AKY." 

j      Mr.  Jnmes  Conyers  found  the  long  sum- 

i  mer's    day    hang   rather    heavily    upon    his 

I  hands  at  Mellish  Park,  in  the  society  of  the 

I  rheumatic    ex-trainer,   the    stable-boys,    and 

j  Steeve  Ilargravcs,  the  softy,  and  with  no  lit- 

j  erary  resources   except   tlnr    last    Saturday's 

BdCa  Liff.,  and  sundry  flimsy  sheets  of  shiny, 

I  slippery  tissue-pajier,  forwarded  him  by  post 

from  King  Charles'  Croft,  in  the  busy  town  of 

Leeds. 

He  might  have  found  plenty  of  work  to  do 
in  the  stables,  perhaps,  if  he  had  ha<l  a  mind 
to   do  it;    but   after  the   night  of  the   storm 
;  there  was  a  perceptible  (diauge  in  his  manner, 
and  the  showy  pretA.'nce  of  being  very  busy. 
!  which  he  had  made  on  his  fust  arrival  at  the 
;  Park,  was  now  exchanged  for  a  listless  and 
undisguised    dawdling    and    an    unconcerned 
!  indifference,  which  caused   the  old  trainer  to 
shake  his  gray  head,  an<l  mutter  to  his  lianir- 
I  ers-oii  that  the  new  chap  warn't  up  to  mooch, 
and  was  evidently  too  grand  for  his  business. 
Mr.  James  cared  very  little  for  the  opiu- 
I  ion   of  these  simple    Yorkshiremen  ;    and   he 
I  yawned  in  their  faces,  aufl  stilled  them  with 
!  his  cigar-smoke,  with  a  dashing  indillerence 
i  that   iiarmoni7.ed  well  with  the  gorgtous  tinta. 
!  of  his  complexion  and  the  lustrous  splendor 
of  his  lazy  eyes.     He  hwX  taken  the  trouble 
to  make  himself  vory  agreeable  on  the  day 
succeeding   his    arrival,  and    had   distributed 
his  hearty  slaps  on  the  slioulder  and  friendly 
digs  in  tile  ribs  right  and   lefl,  until  he  had 
slappi'd   and    dug    himself   into   comiderabh- 
popularity  among  the  friendly   rustiis.   who 
were  ready  to  be  bewitched  by  his  handsome 
face  and  flashy  manner.     But  after  his  inter- 
view with  Mr.s.  Mcilish  in  the  cottage  by  the 
north  gaUs,  l-.e  sc»rmed  to  abandon  all  desire 
to  please,  and  to  grow  auddeuly  restless  and 


il04 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


discontented  —  so  restless  and  so  discontented 
that  he  felt  inclined  even  to  quarrel  with  the 
unhappy  sofly,  and  led  his  red-haired  retainer 
a  sufficiently  uncomfortable  life  with  his  whims 
and  vagaries. 

Stephen  Hargraves  bore  this  change  in  his 
new  master's  manner  with  wonderful  patience. 
Rather  too  patiently,  perhaps  ;  with  that  slow, 
dogged,  uncomplaining  patience  of  those  who 
keep  something  in  reserve  as  a  set-olf  against 
present  forbearance,  and  who  invite  rather 
than  avoid  injury,  rejoicing  in  anything  which 
swells  the  great  account,  to  be  squared  in  fu- 
ture storm  and  fury.  The  softy  was  a  man 
who  could  hoard  his  hatred  and  vengeance, 
hiding  the  bad  passions  away  in  the  dark 
corners  of  his  poor  shattered  mind,  and  bring- 
ing them  out  in  the  dead  of  tlie  night  to 
"  kiss  and  talk  to,"'  as  the  Moor's  wife'kissed 
and  conversed  with  the  strawberry-embroid- 
ered cambric.  There  must  surely  have  been 
very  little  "society"  at  Cyprus,  or  Mrs. 
Othello  could  scarcely  have  been  reduced  to 
such  insipid  company. 

However  it  might  be,  Steeve  bore  Mr.  Con- 
yers'  careless  insolence  so  very  meekly  that 
the  trainer  laughed  at  his  attendant  for  a 
poor-spirited  hound,  whom  a  pair  of  flashing 
black  eyes  and  a  lady's  toy  riding-whip  could 
frighten  out  of  the  poor  remnant  of  wit  left 
in  his  muddled  brain.  He  said  something  to 
this  effect  when  Steeve  displeased  him  once, 
in  the  course  of  the  long,  temper-trying  sum- 
mer's day,  and  the  softy  turned  away  with 
something  very  like  a  chuckle  of  savage  pleas- 
ure in  acknowledgment  of  the  compliment. 
He  was  more  obsequious  than  ever  after  it, 
and  was  humbly  thankful  for  the  ends  of 
cigars  which  the  trainer  liberally  bestowed 
upon  him,  ^.ad  went  into  Doncaster  for  more 
spirits  and  more  ^.-i^ars  in  the  course  of  the 
day,  and  fetched  and  carried  as  submissively 
as  that  craven-spirited  hound  to  which  his 
employer  had  politely  compared  him. 

Mr.  Conyers  did  not  even  make  a  pretence 
of  going  to  look  at  the  liorses  on  this  blazing 
5th  of  July,  but  lolled  on  the  window-sill, 
with  his  lame  leg  upon  a  chair,  and  his  back 
against  the  frame-work  of  the  little  casement, 
smoking,  drinking,  and  reading  his  price-lists 
all  through  the  sunny  day.  The  cold  brandy 
and  water  which  he  poured,  without  half  an 
houi-'s  intermission,  down  his  handsome  throat, 
seemed  to  have  far  less  influence  upon  him 
than  the  same  amount  of  li(juid  would  have 
had  upon  a  horse.  It  would  have  put  the 
horse  out  of  condition,  perhaps,  but  it  had  no 
effect  whatever  upon  the  trainer. 

Mrs.  Powell,  walking  for  the  benefit  of  her 
health,  in  the  north  shrubberies,  and  incurrin'f 
imminent  danger  of  a  sun-stroke  for  the  same 
praiseworthy  reason,  contrived  to  pass  the 
lodge,  and  to  see  Mr.  Conyers  lounging,  dark 
and  splendid,  on  the  window-sill,  exhibiting  a 
kitcat  of  his  handsome  person  framed  in  the 


clustering  foliage  which  hung  about  the  cot- 
tage walls.  She  was  rather  embarrassed  by 
the  pre,sence  of  the  softy,  who  was  sweeping 
the  door-step,  and  who  gave  her  a  glance  of 
recognition  as  she  passed — a  glance  which 
might  perhaps  have  said,  "  We  know  his  se- 
crets, you  and  I,  handsome  and  insolent  as  he 
is  ;  we  know  the  paltry  price  at  which  lie  can 
be  bought  and  sold.  But  we  keep  our  coun- 
sel—  we  keep  our  counsel  till  time  ripens  the 
bitter  fruit  upon  the  tree,  though  our  fingers 
itch  to  pluck  it  while  it  is  still  green." 

Mrs.  Powell  stopped  to  give  the  trainer 
good-day,  expressing  as  much  surprise  at  see- 
ing liim  at  the  north  lodge  as  if  she  had  been 
given  to  understand  that  he  was  travelling  to 
Kamtchatka;  but  Mr.  Conyers  cut  her  civili- 
ties short  with  a  yawn,  and  told  her,  with 
easy  familiarity,  that  she  would  be  conferring 
a  favor  upon  him  by  sending  him  that  morn- 
ing's 7'iwie.s'  as  soon  as  the  daily  papers  arrived 
at  the  Park.  The  ensign's  widow  was  too 
much  under  the  influence  of  the  graceful  im- 
pertinence of  his  manner  to  resist  it  as  she 
might  have  done,  and  returned  to  the  house, 
bewildered  and  wondering,  to  comply  with 
his  request.  So  through  the  oppressive  heat 
of  the  summer's  day  the  trainer  smoked, 
drank,  and  took  his  ease,  while  his  dependent 
and  follower  watched  him  with  a  puzzled 
face,  revolving  vaguely  and  confusedly  in  his 
dull,  muddled  brain  the  events  of  the  previous 
night. 

But  Mr.  James  Conyers  grew  weary  at  last 
even  of  his  own  ease  ;  and  that  inherent  rest- 
les.sness  which  caused  Rasselas  to  tire  of  his 
happy  valley,  and  sicken  for  the  free  breezes 
on  the  hill-tops  and  the  clamor  of  the  distant 
cities,  arose  in  tlic  bosom  of  the  trainer,  and 
grew  so  strong  that  he  began  to  chafe  at  the 
rural  quiet  of  the  north  lodge,  and  to  shuffle 
his  poor  lame  leg  wearily  from  one  position  to 
another  in  sheer  discontent  of  mind,  which, 
bv  one  of  those  many  subtle  links  between 
spirit  and  matter  that  tell  us  we  are  mortal, 
communicated  itself  to  his  body,  and  gave 
him  that  chronic  disorder  which  is  popularly 
called  "  the  fidgets  "  —  an  unquiet  fever,  gen- 
erated amid  the  fibres  of  the  brain,  and  find- 
ing its  way  by  that  physiological  telegraph,  the 
spinal  marrow,  to  the  remotest  station  on  the 
human  railway. 

]\Ir.  James  suffered  from  this  common  com- 
plaint to  such  a  degi-ee  that,  <is  the  solemn 
strokes  of  the  church  clock  vibrated  in  sono- 
rous music  above  the  tree-tops  of  Mellish  Park 
in  the  sunny  evening  atmosphere,  he  threw 
down  his  pipe  with  an* impatient  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  and  called  to  the  softy  to  bring  him 
his  hat  and  walking-stick. 

"  Seven  o'clock,"  he  muttered;  "  only  seven 
o'clock.  I  think  there  must  have  been  twen- 
ty-four hours  in  this  blessed  summer's  day." 

He  stood  looking  fronj  the  little  casement 
window  with  a  discontented  frown  contractina; 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


106 


his  hanflsome  eyebrows,  and  a  peevish  expres- 
sion (listortinj>;  his  full,  classically-moulded  lips 
as  he  said  this.  He  glanced  through  the  little 
casement,  made  smaller  bv  its  clustering  frame 
of  roses  and  clematis,  jessamine  and  myrtle, 
and  looking  like  the  port-hole  of  a  ship  that 
sailed  upon  a  sea  of  summer  verdure.  Hi; 
glanced  through  the  circular  opening  left  by 
that  scented  frame-work  of  Iea\'es  and  blos- 
soms into  the  long  glades,  where  the  low  sun- 
light wa><  flickering  upon  waving  fringes  of 
fern.  He  followed  with  liis  listless  glance 
the  wandering  intricacies  of  the  iinderwood, 
until  they  led  his  weary  eyes  away  to  distant 
patches  of  blue  water,  slowly  changing  to 
0])al  and  rose -color  in  the  declining  light. 
He  saw  all  these  things  with  a  lazy  apathy, 
whicli  had  no  power  to  recognize  their  beauty, 
01"  to  iinj)ire  one  latent  thrill  of  gratitude  to 
Him  wlio  had  made  them.  Ife  had  better 
have  been  blind;  surely  he  had  better  have 
been  bliml. 

He  turned  his  back  upon  the  evening  sun- 
shine, and  looked  at  the  while  fact;  of  Steevi^ 
Hargraves,  the  softy,  with  every  whit  as  much 
pleasure  as  he  had  felt  in  looking  at  Nature 
in  her  loveliest  aspect. 

"  A  long  day,"  he  said ;  '•  an  infernally 
tedions,  wearisome  day.  Thank  God,  it  's 
over." 

Strange  that,  as  he  uttered  this  impious 
thanksgiving,  no  subtle  influence  of  the  futiu'e 
crept  through  his  veins  to  chill  the  slackeninrr 
pulses  of  his  heart,  and  freeze  the  idle  words 
upon  his  lips.  If  he  ha<l  known  what  was  so 
soon  to  come:  if  he  had  known,  as  he  thanked 
(r.H\  for  the  death  of  one  beautiful  sunnner's 
day,  never  to  be  born  again,  with  its  twelve, 
hours  of  opportunity  for  good  or  evil,  surely 
he  would  have  grovelled  on  the  earth,  stricken 
with  a  sudden  terror,  and  we[)t  aloud  for  the 
shameful  history  of  the  life  which  lay  behind 
him. 

He  had  never  shed  tears  but  once  since  his 
chiidliood,  and  then  those  tear.s  were  scalding 
drops  of  baffled  rage  and  vengeful  fury  at  the 
utter  defeat  of  the  greatest  scheme  of  his  life. 

"I  shall  go  into  Doncaster  to-night,  Har- 
graves," he  said  to  the  softy,  who  stood  defer- 
entially awaiting  his  master's  ])leasure.  and 
"warching  him.  as  he  had  watched  him  all  day, 
furtively  but  incessantly;  "  I  shall  spend  tlic 
evening  in  Doncaster,  and — nnd — see  if  I  ean 
pick  np  a  few  wrinkles  about  the  Septemljcr 
meeting:  not  that  there  's  anything  worth  en- 
tering among  this  set  of  screws,  I>ord  knows," 
he  added,  with  undisguised  contempt  for  poor 
John's  beloved  stable.  •'  Is  there  a  dog-cart, 
or  a  tra])  of  any  kind,  1  can  drive  over  in  ?" 
he  askeil  of  the  softy. 

Mr.  Hargraves  said  that  there  was  a  New- 
port Pagnell,  which  was  sacred  to  Mr.  John  1 
Meilish,  and  a  gig  that  was  at  the  disposal  of 
any  of  the  upper  servants  when  they  had  oc-  ' 
casion  to  jro  into  Donea.stcr,  a«  well  a«  a  cov-  ' 


ered  van,  whieh  some  of  the  lads  drove  into 
the  town  every  day  for  the  groceries  and  other 
matters  required  at  the  house. 

"Very  good,"  said  Mr.  Conycrs:  "you  mav 
run  down  to  the  stables,  and  tell  one  of  the 
boys  to  put  the  fastest  pony  of  the  lot  into  the 
Newport  Pagnell,  and  to  bring  it  up  here,  and 
to  look  sharp." 

"  l^it  nobody  but  Muster  Meilish  rides  in  « 
the   Newport   Pagnell,"  sugge.sted   the   softy, 
with  an  accent  of  alarm. 

"  What  of  that,  you  cowardly  hound  ?" 
cried  the  trainer,  contemptuously.  "  I  'ni 
going  to  drive  it  to-night,  don't  you  hear? 
D  —  n  his  Yorkshire  insolence  !  Am  I  to  be 
put  down  hy  him  f  It  's  his  handsome  wife 
that  he  takes  such  pride  in,  is  it?  Lord  help 
him !  Whose  money  bought  the  dog-cart,  I 
wonder?  Aurora  Floyd's,  perhap.s.  And  1 
'm  not  to  ride  in  it,  I  su]»pose,  because  it  's 
my  lord's  pleasure  to  drive  liis  black-eyed  lady 
in  the  sacred  vehicle.  Look  you  here,  yon 
brainless  idiot,  ami  understand  me,  if  you 
can,"  cried  Mr.  James  ConVers,  in  a  sudden 
rage,  which  crimsoned  his  handsome  face,  and 
lit  up  his  lazy  eyes  with  a  new  fire  — "look 
you  here,  Stcjihen  Hargraves;  if  it  was  n't 
that  I  'm  tied  hand  and  foot,  and  have  been 
plotted  against  ami  thwarted  by  a  woman's 
cunning  at  every  turn,  I  could  smoke  my 
pipe  in  yonder  house,  or  in  a  better  house  this 
day." 

He  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  pinnacled 
roof,  and  the  reddened  windows  glittci'ing  in 
the  evening  sun,  visible  fiw  away  among  the 
trees. 

"Mr.  John  McHish!"  lie  .said.  'If  his  wife 
was  n't  such  a  she-devil  as  to  be  too  many 
guns  for  the  cleverest  man  in  Christendom, 
I  'd  soon  make  him  sing  small.  Fetch  the 
Newport  Pagnell,"  he  cried,  suddenly,  with 
an  abrupt  chnngc  of  tone  ;  "  fetch  it,  and  be 
quick.  I  'm  not  safe  to  myself  when  I  talk  of 
this.  I  'm  not  safe  when  I  think  how  near  I 
was  to  half  a  million  of  money,"  he  muttered 
under  his  breath. 

IL'  limped  out  into  the  open  air,  tanning 
himself  with  the  wide  brim  of  his  f«dt  hat.  and 
wiping  the  jx-rspiration  from  his  forehead. 

"  15e  quick,"  he  cried,  impatientlj-.  to  hi.s 
deliberate  attemlant,  who  had  li>tened  eager- 
ly to  every  word  of  his  master's  passionate 
talk,  and  who  now  stoo<l  wat(diing  him  even 
more  intently  than  before  ;  "  be  (juick,  mati, 
can't  you?  I  don't  pay  yoii  five  shillings  a 
week  to  stare  at  me.  Fetch  the  trap.  I  've 
worked  myself  into  a  fever,  and  nothing  but 
a  rattling  firive  will  set  me  right  again." 

'F'he  softy  shiiflled  ofi"  as  rapidly  as  it  wa« 
within  the  range  of  his  ability  to  walk.  lie 
had  never  l)een  seen  to  run  in  his  life,  but  ha«l 
a  slow,  sid^dong  gait,  which  hat!  some  faint 
resemblance  to  fliat  of  the  lower  r<'])files,  btit 
very  little  in  oonnnon  with  the  motions  of  his 
fellow-men. 


106 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Mr.  James  Conyers  lim])ed  up  and  down 
tlie  little  grassj-  lawn  in  front  of  the  north 
lodge.  The  excitement  which  had  crimsoned 
his  face  aradually  subsided  as  he  vented  his 
disquietude  in  occasional  impatient  exclama- 
tions. "  Two  thousand  pound,"  he  muttered  ; 
"  a  pitiful,  paltry  two  thousand..  Not  a 
twelvemonth's  interest  on  the  money  I  ought 
to  have  had  —  the  money  I  should  have  had, 
if—  " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  growled  some- 
thing like  an  oath  between  his  set  teeth  as  he 
struck  his  stick  with  angry  violence  into  the 
soft  grass.  It  is  especially  hard  when  we  are 
reviling  our  bad  ibrtune,  and  quamdiing  with 
our  fate,  to  find  at  last,  on  wandering  back- 
ward to  the  source  of  our  ill  luck,  that  the  pri- 
niai-}-  cause  of  all  has  been  our  own  evil-doing. 
It  was  this  that  made  Mr.  Conyers  stop  abrupt- 
ly in  his  reflections  upon  liis  misfortunes,  and 
break  oft"  with  a  smothered  oath,  and  listen 
impatiently  for  the  wheels  of  the  Newport 
Pagnell. 

The  softy  appeared  presently,  leading  the 
horse  by  the  bridle.  He  had  not  presumed 
to  se^t  himself  in  the  sacred  vehicle,  and  he 
stared  wonderingly  at  James  Conyers  as  the 
trainer  tumbled  about  the  chocolate  -  cloth 
cushions,  arranging  them  afresh  for  his  own 
ease  and  comfort.  Neither  the  bright  varnish 
of  the  dark  brown  panels,  nor  the  crimson 
crest,  nor  the  glittering  steel  ornaments  on 
the  neat  harness,  nor  an}'  of  the  exquisitely 
finished  apjjointments  of  the  light  vehicle, 
])i'ovoked  one  word  of  criticism  from  Mr. 
Conyers.  He  mounted  as  easily  as  his  lame 
leg  would  allow  him,  and,  taking  the  reins 
from  the  softy,  lighted  his  cigar,  preparatory 
to  starting. 

"  You  need  n't  sit  up  for  me  to-night,"  he 
said,  as  he  drove  into  the  dusty  higli-road;  "I 
siiall  be  late." 

Mr.  Ilargraves  shut  the  iron  gates  with  a 
loud  claidcing  noise  upon  his  new  master. 

"  But  I  shall,  though,"  he  muttered,  looking 
askant  through  the  bars  at  the  fast-disappear- 
ing Newport  Pagnell,  which  was  now  little 
more  than  a  black  spot  in  a  white  cloud  of 
dust ;  "  but  I  shall  sit  up,  though.  You  '11 
come  home  drunk,  I  lay."  (Yorkshire  is  so 
preeminently  a  horse-racing  and  betting  coun- 
ty, that  even  simple  country  folk  who  have 
never  wagered  a  sixpence  in  the  quiet  course 
of  their  lives  say  "I  lay"  where  a  Londoner 
would  say  "  1  dare  say.")  "  You  '11  come 
liome  drunk,  I  lay;  folks  generally  do  from 
Doncaster;  and  I  shall  hear  some  more  of  your 
wild  talk.  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  in  a  slow,  re- 
flecting tone,  "it  's  very  wild  talk,  and  I  can't 
make  top  nor  tail  of  it  yet  —  not  yet;  but  it 
seems  to  me  somehow  as  if  I  knew  what  it  all 
meant,  only  I  can't  put  it  together  —  I  can't 
put  it  together.  There  's  something  uiissin', 
and  the  want  of  that  something  hinders  me 
putting  it  together." 


He  rubbed  his  stubble  of  coar.se  red  hair  with 

his  two  strong,  awkward  hands,  as  if  he  would 
fain  have  rubbed  some  wanting  intelligence 
into  his  head- 

'•  Two  thousand  pound,"  he  said,  walking 
slowly  back  to  the  cottage  —  "  two  thousand 
pound.  It  's  a  power  of  money.  Why  it  's 
two  thousand  pound  that  the  winner  gets  by 
the  great  race  at  Newmarket,  and  there  's  all 
the  gentlefolks  ready  to  give  their  cars  for  it. 
There  's  great  lords  fighting  and  struggling 
against  each  other  for  it ;  so  it  's  nd  wonder 
a  poor  fond  chap  like  me  thinks  summat 
about  it." 

He  sat  down  upon  the  step  of  the  lodge- 
door  to  smoke  the  cigar-ends  which  his  bene- 
factor had  thrown  him  in  the  course  of  the 
day;  but  lie  still  ruminated  upon  this  subject, 
and  he  still  stopped  sometimes,  between  the 
extinction  of  one  cheroot  stump  and  the  illu- 
minating of  another,  to  nuitter,  "  Two  thou- 
sand pound.  Twenty  hundred  pound.  Forty 
times  fifty  pound,"  with  an  unctuous  chuckle 
alter  the  enunciation  of  each  figure,  as  if  it 
was  .some  privilege  even  to  be  able  to  talk  of 
such  vast  sums  of  money.  So  might  some  il 
doting  lovei',  In  the  absence  of  his  idol,  mur-  k! 
mur  the  beloved  name  to  th«  summer  breeze,  f 

The  last  crimson  lights  upon  the  patches  of 
blue  water  died   out  beneath   the   gathering 
darkness;  but  the  softy  sat,  still  smoking,  and 
still  ruminating,  till  the  stai's  were  high  in  the  'i 
purple  vault  above  his  head.     A  little  after  " 
ten  o'clock   he  heard  the  rattling  of  wheels 
and  the  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs  upon  the  high-  !i! 
road,  and,  going  to  the  gate,  he  looked  out 
through  the  iron  bars.     As  the  vehicle  dashed 
by  the  north  gates,  he  saw  that  it  was  one  of 
the  Mellish-Park  carriages  which   had  been  ' 
sent  to  the  station  to  meet  John  and  his  wife,  li 

"A  short  visit  to  Loon'on,"  he  muttered. 
*'  I  lay  she  's  been  to  fetch  the  brass." 

The  greedy  eyes  of  the  hali-witted  groom  pi 
peered  through  the  iron  bars  at  the  passing 
carriage,  as  if  he  would  have  fain  looked 
through  its  opacjue  panels  in  search  of  that 
which  he  had  denominated  "  the  brass."  He 
had  a  vague  idea  that  two  thousand  pounds 
would  be  a  great  bulk  of  money,  and  that 
Aurora  would  carry  it  in  a  chest  or  a  bundle 
that  might  be  perceptible  through  the  car- 
riage-window. 

"  I  '11  lay  she  's  been  to  fetch  t'  brass,"  he 
repeated,  as  he  crept  back  to  the  lodge-door. 

He  resumed  his  seat  upon  the  door-step,  his 
cigar-ends,  and  his  reverie,  rubbing  his  head  irl 
very  often,  sometimes  with  one  hand,  some- 1 
times  with  both,  but  always  as  if  he  were  try-  i-. 
ing  to  rub  some  wanting  sense  or  power  ofu' 
perception  into  his  wretched  brains.     Some- : 
times  he  gave  a  short  restless  sigh,  as  if  he 
had  been  trying  all  this  time  to  guess  some 
difficult  enigma,  and  was  on  the  point  of  giv-  'rj; 
ing  it  up. 

It  was  long  after  midnight  when  Mr.  James  fc 


i 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


107 


Conj-ers  returned,  vej-y  much  the  worse  for 
brandy  and  water  and  dust.  He  tumbled 
over  the  softy,  still  sitting  on  the  step  of  the 
open  door,  and  then  cursed  Mr.  Ilargi-aves  for 
being  in  the  way- 

"B't  s'nc'y'h'v  eliVn  t'  s't  'p,"  said  the  train- 
er, speaking  a  language  entirely  composed  of 
vonsonants,  "  y'  ni'y  dr'v'  tr'p  b'ck  t'  st'bl's." 

By  which  rather  obscure  speech  he  gave  the 
softy  to  understand  that  he  was  to  take  the 
dog-cart  back  to  Mi-.  IMellish's  stable-yard. 

Steeve  Hargravis  did  his  drunken  master's 
bitlding,  and,  leading  the  horse  homeward 
tlirough  the  quiet  night,  found  a  cross  boy 
with  a  lantern  in  his  hand  waiting  at  the  gate 
of  the  stable-yard,  and  by  no  means  disposiMl 
for  conversation,  except,  indeed,  to  the  e.xtent 
3f  the  one  remark  that  he.  the  cross  boy, 
hoped  the  new  trainer  was  n't  going  to  be  uj) 
:o  this  game  every  night,  and  hoped  the  mare, 
which  had  been  bred  ibr  a  racer,  had  n't  been 
11  used. 

All  John  Mellish's  horses  seemed  to  have 
jeen  bred  for  racers,  and  to  have  dropped 
xradually  from  prospective  winners  of  the 
Derby,  Oaks,  Chester  Cup,  Great  Ebor.  York- 
ihire  Stakes,  Legcr,  and  Doncaster  Cuj),  to 
:ay  nodiing  of  minor  victories  in  the  way  of 
S'^orthuniberland  riates.  Liverpool  Autumn 
"^ups,  and  Curragh  Handicaps,  through  everv 
ai-icty  of  failure  and  defeat,  into  the  every- 
lav  ignominy  of  harness.  Even  the  van 
vlnch  carried  groceries  was  drawn  by  a  slim- 
egged,  narrow-chested,  high-shouldered  ani- 
nai,  called  the  "Yorkshire*  Childers,"'  and  1 
)ought,  in  its  sunny  colthood,  at  a  great  price  ! 
)y  poor  John.         "  '^  ! 

Mr.  Cnnyers  was  snoring  aloud  in  his  little  ! 
•eilroom  when  Steeve  Hargravcs  returned  to  \ 
he   lodge.     The  .soity  stared   wonderinglv  at  '< 
he   handsome  face  brutalized  by  driulf,  and  • 
he  classical  head  flung  back  upon  the  criim- 
•Icd  ])illow  in  one  of  those  wretched  positions  • 
s'hicii  intoxication  always  chooses  ibr  its  re- 
ose.       Steeve    Hargraves   rubbed    his   head 
arder  even  than  before  as  he  looked  at  the 
erl'cetprofde,  the   red,   half-parted  lips,   the 
ark  fringe  of  lashes  on  the  faintlv  crimson- 
inted  cheek.s. 

'•  Perhaps  I  might  have  been  good  for  sum- 
lat  if  I  'd  been  like//ow,"  he  said,  with  a  half- 
ivage  melancholy.     "  I  should  n't  have  been 
shamed  of  myself  then.     I  should  n't  have 
rejit  into  dark  corners  to  hide  myself,  and 
jink  why  I   was  n't  like   other  people,  and  i 
■hat  a  bitter,  cruel  shame  it  was  that  I  was  i 
't  like  'em.      You  \-e  no  call  to  hide  yourself  i 
om  other  folks;  nobody  tells  you  to  get  out  \ 
"the  way  for  an  ugly  hound,  as  you  told  me  j 
us  morning,  hang  you.     The  world  's  smooth  1 
iiougii  for  you."  ! 

So  may  Caliban  have  looked  at  Prosper©,  ! 
ith  envy  and  hate  in  his  heart,  before  goiwr 
>  his  olinoxious   tasks  of '.lish- washing'^  and  j 
cncher-scrajung. 


He  shook  his  fist  at  the  unconscious  sleeper 
as  he  finished  .speaking,  and  then  stooped  to 
pick  up  the  traini-r's  dusty  clothes,  which  were 
seattei-ed  upon  the  floor. 

"  I  suppose  I  'm  to  brush  these  before  I  go  to 
1  bed,"  he  muttered,  "  that  my  lord  may  have 
i  'em  ready  when  he  wakes  in  th'  morning." 
I  He  took  the  clothes  on  his  arm  and  the 
j  light  in  his  hand,  and  went  down  to  the  lower 
i  room,  where  he  found  a  brush,  and  set  to  work 
j  sturdily,  enveloping  himself  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 
like  some  ugly  Aiabian  (/cnie  who  was  goinf 
:  to  transform  himself  into  a  handsome  prince. 
j  He  stopped  suddenly  in  his  brushing  by  and 
by,  and  crumpled  the  waistcoat  in  hisi  hand. 

"  There  's  some  paper,"  he  exclaimed.  "A 
paper  sewed  up  between  stuff  and  linin'." 

He  omitted  the  definite  article  before  each 
of  the  substantives,  as  is  a  common  habit  with 
his  countrymen  when  at  all  excited. 

"A  bit  o'  paper,"  he  repeated,  "  between 
stufT  and  linin'.  1  '11  rip  t'  wai.stcoat  open 
and  see  what  't  is." 

He  took  his  clasp-knife  from  his  pocket, 
carefully  unripped  a  part  of  one  of  the  seams 
in  the  waistcoat,  and  extracted  a  piece  of 
paper  folded  double  —  a  decent -sized  square 
of  rather  thick  paper,  pai-tiy  printed,  partly 
writt(>n. 

He  leaned  over  the  light  witii  his  elbows  on 
the  fable,  and  read  the  contents  of  this  paper, 
slowly  and  laboriously,  following  every  word 
with  iiis  thick  fbrc/ingcj-,  .sometimes  stopping 
a  long  time  upon  one  syllable,  sometimes  try- 
ing back  half  a  line  or  so,  but  always  plodding 
patiently  with  his  ugly  forefinger. 

When  he  came  to  the  last  woi-d,  he  burst 
suddenly  into  a  loud  (.'huckle,  as  if  he  had  just 
succeeded  in  guc-'sing  that  difiicult  enigma 
which  had  puzzled  him  all  the  evening. 

"]  know  it  all  now,"  he  said.  ''I  can  put 
it  all  together  now,  his  woiNls.  and  hers,  and 
the  money.  I  can  put  it  all  together,  and 
make  out  the  meaning  of  it.  She  's  going  to 
give  him  the  two  thousand  pound  to  go  away 
from  here  and  say  nothing  about  this." 

He  refolded  the  jjapcr,  replaced  it  carefully 
in  its  hiding-place  between  the  stufl'  and  lin- 
ing of  the  waistcoat,  then  searched  in  hia 
capai'ious  pocket  for  a  fat  leathern  book,  in 
which,  among  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends,  there 
were  some  needles  and  a  tangled  skein  of 
black  thread.  Then,  stooping  over  the  light, 
he  slowly  sewed  up  the  seam  whicii  he  had 
ripped  o])en.  dexterously  and  neatly  enough, 
in  spite  of  the  clumsiness  of  his  big  fingers. 


CHAPTER     XXII. 

STILL    CONSTANT. 

Mr.  .Tamcs  Conyers  took  his  breakfa.st  in  his 
own  apartment  upon  the  morning  of  his  visit 
to  Douraster,  and  Stephen   Hargraves  waited 


108 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


upon  him,  carryinij  him  a  basin  of  ni'iddy  cof- 
fee, and  enduring  his  ill  humor  with  the  lon<T- 
puflfV'ring  which  seemed  peculiar  to  this  hump- 
backed, low-voiced  stable-helper. 

The  trainer  rejected  the  coffee,  and  called 


He  called  to  the  softy,  and  ordered  him  t| 
mix  a  tumbler  of  the  last-named  beveragj 
cold  and  weak. 

Mr.  Conyers  drained  the  cool  and  lueii 
draught,   and   tlung  himself  baik    unou    tli 


tl 


upon 
for  apipe,  and  lay  smoking  half  the  summer;  pillow  with  a  sigh  of  relief.     He  knew  th;l 
morning,   with    the    scent  of   the    roses    and  I  he  would  be  thirsty  again  in  five  or  ten  mill 
honeysuckle  floating  into  his  close  chamber,  ;  utes,  and  that  the'   respite  was  a  brief  ont 
and   the  July  sunshine   glorifying  the   sham  |  but  still  it  was  a  respite, 
roses  and  blue  lilies  that  twisted  themselves  !      "  Have  they  come  home?"  he  asked, 
in   floricultnral   monstrosity  about  the  cheap!      "Who?" 
paper  on  the  walls.  '  I      "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish,  you  idiot !"  an.swo 

The  softy  cleaned  his  master's  boots,  .set  ed  the  trainer,  fiercely.  "WhoeI.se  shoidd 
them  in  the  sunshine  to  air,  washed  the  break-  I  bother  my  head  about'?  Did  they  come  hou 
fast  things,  swept  the  door -step,  and  then  I  last  night  while  I  was  away  ?" 
seated  himself  upon  it  to  ruminate,  with  his  I  The'softy  told  his  maste'r  that  he  had  see 
elliows  on  his  knees  and  his  hands  twisted  in  j  one  of  the  carriages  drive  past  the  nortli  gatt 
his  coar.se  red  hair.  The  silence  of  the  summer  j  at  a  little  after  ten  o'clock  upon  the  precedin 
atmosphere  was  only  broken  by  the  drowsy  j  night,  and  that  be  supposed  it  contained  M 
lium  of  the  insects  in  the  wood,  and  the  occa-  1  and  Mrs.  Mellish. 
sional  dropping  of  some  early-blighted  leaf.  "  Then  you  'd  better  go  up  to  the  house  an 

Mr.  Conyers'  temper  haci  been  in  no  man-  j  make   sure,"  said   Mr.   Conyers ;  "  I  want  t 
ner  improved  by  his  niijht's  dissii)ation  in  tiie  '  know." 
town  of  Doncaster.     Heaven  knows  what  en- I      "  Go  up  toth' house  ?" 
tertainment    he    had    found    in    those    lonely'      "  Yes,  coward  I  yes,  sneak  !     Do  you  su{ 
streets,  the   gra.ss- grown  market-place   and  {  pose  that  Mrs.  Mellish  will  eat  you  ?'' 
tenantless  stalls,  or  that  dreary  and  hermeti-        "  I  don't  suppo.se  naught  o'  t'sort,"  answe 
cally-scaled  building,  which  looks  like  a  prison  i  ed  the  softy,  sulkily,  "  but  T  *d  rather  not  >ro. 
on  three  sides  and  a  chapel  on  the  fourth,  and  i      "  But  I  teJl  you'l  want  to  know,"  said  M 
wliich,  during  the  September  meeting,  bursts  .  Conyers;  "  I  want  to  kiiow  If  Mr.s.  Mellish  ' 
suddenly  into  life  and  light  with  huge  posters  !  at  home,  and  what  she  's  up  to,  and  whetht  •. 
flariuff  against  its  gaunt  walls,  and  a  bright  1  there  are  any  visitors  at  the   hou.se,  and  a 
blue -ink    announcement   of    I\Ir.    and    Mrs.    about  her.     Do  you  understand  ?" 
Charles  Mathews,   nr  Mr.  and  Mrs.   Charles'      "Yes;  it 's  easy  enough  to  understand,  bi'- 
Kean,  for  five   nights  only.     Normal   amuse-  |  it  's  rare  and  dilfieult  to  do,"  replied  St« 
ment  in  the  town  of  Doncaster  between  those  j  Hargraves.     "  How  am  I  to  find  out?     Wht;' 
two   oases    in    the   year'.-i   dreary   circle,    the    's  to  tell  me  ?" 

spring  and  autumn  meetings,  there  is  none;  i  "  How  do  T  know  ?"  cried  the  trainer,  inf 
but  of  abnormal  and  special  entertainment  !  patiently  ;  for  Stephen  Hargrave's  slow,  do;' 
there  may  be  much,  only  known  to  such  men  j  ged  stupidity  was  throwing  the  dashing  Jamo 
as  Mr.  James  Conyers,  to  whom  the  most  sin-  •  Conyers  into  a  fever  of  vexation.  '•  How  d 
uous  alley  is  a  jjlea.'^ant  road,  so  long  as  it  1  I  know?  Don't  you  see  that  I  'm  too  ill  t 
leads,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  the  betting-  j  stir  from  this  bed  ?  I  'd  go  myself  if  I  wrtjt 
man's  god— Money.  '  i  n't.    And  can't  you  go  and  do  what  I  tell  yo*': 

However  this  might  be,  Mr.  Conyers  bore  i  without  standing  arguing  there  utitilyou  dVivfi 
upon  him  all  the  symptoms  of  having,  as  the  j  me  mad  ?"  « 

popular  phrase  has  it,  made  a  night  of  it.  ;  Steeve  Hargraves  muttered  some  sulkle 
His  eyes  were  dim  and  glas.sy  ;  liis  tongue  hot  j  apology,  and  shuffled  out  of  the  room.  M^:^ 
and  furred,  and  uncomfortably  large  for  his  j  Conyers'  handsome  eyes  ibllowed  him  with  ^■ 
parched  mouth ;  his  hand  so  shaky  that  the  !  dark  frown.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  state  A 
operation  which  he  performed  with  a  razor  !  health  which  succeeds  a  drunken  debaucH't 
before  his  look  inn-glass  was  a  toss-up  between  •  and  the  trainer  was  angry  with  himself  for  tlijo., 
suicide  and  shaviniv.     His  heavv  head  seemed  '  weakness  which  had  taken  him  to  Domiasttf! 


to  have  been  transformed  into  a  leaden  box  j  upon  the  preceding  eveninir,  and  thereby  iii 

full  of  buzzing  noises;  and  aft(  --      -  --    • 

through  his  toilet,    he   gave  it  up  for  a  bad  <      There  is  a  g)-eat  deal  of  vicarious  penan 


full  of  buzzing  noises;  and  after  getting  half  i  dined  to  vent  his  anuer  upon  other  people. 


:f 


job,  and  tluyw  himself  upon  the  bed  he  had  j  done  in  this  world.  Lady'.s-maids  are  apt  t»i 
just  left,  a  victim  to  that  biliary  derangement  '  suffer  for  the  follies  of  their  mistresses,  an*** 
which  incvjtat)ly  follous  an  injudicious  admix-  I  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere's  French  ablgail  H 
ture  of  alcoholic  and  malt  liquors. 

"  A  tumbler  of  Hockhcimer,"  he  muttered, 
"or  even  the  third-rate  Chablis  tliey  give  one 
at  a  table  d'hote,  would  freshen  me  up^^  little ; 
but  there  's  nothing  to  be  had  in  this  abomi- 
nable place  except  "brandy  and  water." 


extremely  likely  to  have  to  atone  for  younli' 
Laurence's  death  by  jiatient  endurance  of  ml* 
lady's  ill  temper,  and  much  unpicking  ank 
remaking  of  bodices,  which  would  have  fittel'''. 
her  ladyship  well  enough  in  any  other  state  d^- 
mind  than  the  remorseful  miserv  which  i.?  eilft 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


103 


!'rc<l  of  an  evil  consicience.  The  ugly 
ash  across  young  Laurence's  throat,  to  say 
othing  of  the  cruel  slanders  ciroulated  after 
he  inquest,  may  make  life  almost  unendur- 
ble  to  the  poor,  meek  nursery-governess  who 
ducat^'S  Lady  Clara's  younger  sisters  ;  and 
he  younger  sisters  themselves,  and  mamma 
ud  papa,  and  my  lady's  youthful  confidantes, 
nd  even  her  haughtiest  adorers,  all  have 
heir  share  in  the  expiation  of  her  ladyship's 
ickednpss.  For  she  will  not — or  she  can  not 
-meekly  nwn  that  she  has  been  guilty,  and 
hut  herself  away  from  the  world,  to  make 
i'Y  own  atonement,  and  work  her  own  re- 
emption.  So  she  thrusts  the  burden  of  her 
ns  upon  other  people's  shoulders,  and  travels 
lie  first  stage  to  captious  and  disappointed 
M-maidism. 
The  connnercial  gentlemen  who  make  awk- 
ard  mistakes  in  the  city,  the  devotees  of  the 
\vi'  whose  misfortunes  keep  them  awav  from 
Ir.  Tattcrsall's  premises  on  a  settling-day, 
an  make  innocent  women  and  children  carry 
ic  weight  of  their  sins,  and  suffer  the  penal- 
es  of  their  foolishness.  Papa  still  smokes 
is  Cabanas  at  fourpence  half-penny  apiece, 
r  his  mild  Turkish  at  nine  shillings  a  pound, 
nd  still  dines  at  the  "  Crown  and  Sceptre  " 

th<!  drowsy  summer  weather,  when  the 
ees  are  asleep  in  the  fiowcrs  at  Morden  Col- 
ge,  and  the  fragrant  hay  newly  stacked  in 
le  meadows  beyond  RIackheath.  But  mam- 
la  must  wear  her  faded  silk,  or  have  it  dyed, 

the  case  may  be ;  and  the  children  must 
>rego  the  promised  happiness,  the  wild  de- 
ght  of  sunny  rambles  on  a  shingly  beach, 
>rdered  by  yellow  sands  that  stretch  away 
)  hug  an  evers'hangeful  and  yet  ever-con- 
:ant  ocean  in  their  tawny  arms.  And  not 
nly  mamma  and  the  little  ones,  but  other 
lothers  and  otlier  little  ones,  must  help  in  the 
eavy  sum  of  penance  for  the  defaulter's  in- 
nities.  Tiie  baker  may  have  calculated 
pon  receiving  that  lung-standing  account, 
nd  may  have  planned  a  new  gown  for  his 
ife,  and  a  summer  treat  for  his  little  ones,  to 
e  paid  for  by  the  expected  money  ;  and  the 
onest  tradesman,  soured  by  the  dlsappoint- 
lent  of  having  to  disappoint  those  he  loves,  is 
kely  to  be  cross  to  them  in  tiie  bargain,  and 
ven  to  grudge  her  Sunday  out  to  the  house- 
old  drudge  who  waits  at  his  little  table.  The 
dluence^of  the  strong  man's  evil  deed  slowly 
ercolatcs  through  insidious  channels  of  which 
.-  never  knows  or  dreams.  The  deed  of  folly 
;  of  guilt  does  its  fatal  work  when  the  sinner 
ho  connuitted  it  has  forgotten  his  wicked- 
jss.  Who  shall  say  where  or  when  the 
•suits  of  one  man's  evil-doing  shall  cease  V 
he  seed  of  sin  engenders  no  common  root, 
looting  straight  upward  through  the  earth, 
id  bearing  a  given  crop.  It  is  the  germ  of  a 
'ul  running  weed,  whose  straggling  suckers 
avel  underground,  beyond  the  ken  of  mortal 
•  e,  beyond  the  power  of  mortal  calculation. 


If  Louis  XV  had  been  a  conscientious  man, 
terror  and  murder,  misery  and  confusion, 
might  never  have  reigned  upon  the  darkened 
face  of  beautiful  France.  If  Eve  had  reject- 
ed the  fatal  fruit,  we  might  all  have  keen  in 
Eden  to-day. 

Mr.  James  Convers,  then,  after  the  manner 
of  mankind,  vented  his  spleen  upon  the  only 
person  who  came  in  his  way,  and  was  glad  to 
be  able  to  despatch  the  softy  upon  an  unpleas- 
ant errand,  and  make  his  attendant  as  un- 
comfortable as  he  was  himself. 

"  My  head  rocks  as  if  I  was  on  board  a 
steam-packet,"'  he  muttered,  as  he  lay  alone 
in  his  little  bedroom,  "  and  my  hand  shakes 
so  that  I  can't  hold  my  pipe  steady  whili>  I 
fill  it.  I  'm  in  a  nice  state  to  have  to  talk  to 
her.  As  if  it  was  n't  as  much  as  I  can  do  at 
the  best  of  times  to  be  a  match  for  her." 

He  flung  aside  his  pipe  half  filled,  and 
turned  his  head  wearily  upon  the  j)ilIow. 
The  hot  sun  and  the  buzz  of  the  insects  tor- 
mented him.  There  was  a  big  blue-bottle  fly 
blundering  and  wheeling  about  among  the 
folds  of  the  dimity  bed-curtains  —  a  fly  which 
seemed  the  very  genius  of  delirium  tremens; 
but  the  trainer  was  too  ill  to  do  more  than 
swear  at  his  purple-winged  tormentor. 

He  was  awakened  from  a  half  doze  by  the 
treble  voice  of  a  small  stable-boy  in  the  room 
below.  He  called  out  angrily  tor  the  lad  to 
come  up  and  state  his  business.  His  business 
was  a  message  from  Mr.  John  Mellish,  who 
wished  to  see  the  trainer  immediately. 

^[>•.  Mellish,"  muttered  James  Convers  to 
himself.  "Tell  your  master  I  'm  too  ill  to 
stir,  but  that  I  '11  wait  upon  him  in  the  even- 
ing," he  said  to  the  boy.  "  You  can  see  1  'm 
ill,  if  you  've  got  any  eyes,  and  you  can  say 
tiiat  you  found  me  in  bed." 

The  lad  departed  with  these  instructions, 
and  Mr.  Conyers  returned  to  his  own  thoughts, 
whicli  appeared  to  be  by  no  means  agreeable 
to  him. 

To  drink  spirituous  liquors  and  play  all- 
fours  in  the  sanded  tap-room  of  a  sporting 
public  is  no  doubt  a  very  delicious  occupation, 
and  would  be  altogether  Elysian  and  unob- 
jectionable if  one  could  always  be  drinking 
spirits  and  playing  all-fours.  But  as  the  finest 
picture  ever  painted  by  Raphael  or  Rubens  is 
but  a  dead  blank  of  canvas  upon  the  reverse, 
so  there  is  generally  a  disagreeable  other  side 
to  all  the  pleasures  of  earth,  and  a  certain  re- 
action after  card-playing  and  brandy-drink- 
ing which  is  more  than  equivalent  in  misery 
to  the  pleasures  which  have  preceded  it. 
Mr.  Conyers,  tossing  his  hot  head  from  side 
to  side  upon  a  pillow  which  seemed  even  hot- 
ter, took  a  very  different  view  of  life  to  that 
which  he  had  expounded  to  his  boon  compan- 
iuns  only  the  night  before  in  the  tap-room  of 
the  "  Lion  and  Lamb, '  Doncaster. 

"  1  should  liked  to  have  stopped  over  the 
Leger,"  he  muttered,  "  for  I  meant  to  make  a 


no 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


hatful  of.  money  out  of  tlie  Conjurer;  for  if  i 
what  they  Bay  at  Richmond  is  anything  like 
truth,  he  's  safe  to  win.    But  there  's  no  going 
against  my  lad)'  when  her  mind  's  made  up.  ' 
It  '9  take  it  or  leave  it  —  yes  or  no  —  and  be  j 
quick  about  it."  i 

Mr.  Conyers  garnifhed  his  speech  with  two  ' 
or  three  expletives  common  enough  among  j 
the  men  with  whom  he  had  lived,  but  not  to  i 
be  recorded  here,  and,  closing  his  eyes,  fell 
into  a  doze  —  a  half-waking,  half-sleeping  tor-  1 
pidity,  in  whicii  he  felt  as  if  his  head  had  be-  ! 
come  a  ton-weight  of  iron,  and  was  dragging  ! 
him  backward  through  the  pillov/  into  a  bot-  ! 
tomless  abj'ss.  i 

Whiles  the  trainer  la}-  in  tlii.s  comfortless  ' 
semi-slumber,  Stephen  Hargraves  walked  j 
slowly  and  sulkily  through  the  wood  on  his  ' 
wav  to  the  invisible  fence,  from  which  point  i 
he  meant  to  reconnoitre  the  premises.  | 

The  irregular  yac«(/(?  of  the  old  house  front-  I 
ed  him  across  the  smooth  breadth  of  lawn, 
dotted  and  broken  by  parti-colored  flower-  ! 
beds;  by  rustic  clumps  of  gnarled  oak  sup- j 
porting  mighty  clusters  of  vivid  scarlet  gera-  ' 
niums,  all  atlame  in  the  sunshine:  by  troUi.scd  i 
arches  laden  wiih  trailing  roses  of  every  vary-  ! 
ing  shade,  from  palest  blush  to  deepest  crim-  [ 
son  ;  by  groups  of  evergreens,  whose  tjverv  ' 
leaf  was  rich  111  beauty  and  luxuriance,  whose  | 
every  tangled  garland  would  have  made  a  ] 
worthy  chaplet  for  a  king.  ' 

The   softy,   in    the    scnii-darknesses   of  his  ' 
soul,  had   some  glimmer  of  that  light  which 
was  altogether   wanting  in  Mr.   James  Con-  , 
yers.     He  felt  that  these  things  were  beauti-  I 
t'ul.     The    broken    lines   of   the    ivy-covered  ! 
hou^e-front,  Gothic  here,  P>lizabethan  there, 
were  fK.some  manner  pleasant  to  him.     The 
scattered  rose-leaves  on  the  lawn  ;  the  flii-ker- 
ing  shadows  of  the  evergreens  upon  the  grass ; 
the  song  ot  a  skylark  too  lazy  to  soar,  and 
content  to  warble  among  the  bushes ;  the  rip-  ' 
piing  sound  of  a  tiny  water-fiiU  t'ar  awav  in  ' 
the  wood,  made  a  language  of  which  he  only 
understood  a  few  straggling  syllables  here  and 
there,  but  which  was  not  altogether  a  mean- 
ingless jargon  to  him,  as  it  was  to  the  trainer, 
to  whose  mind  Holboin  HUl  would  have  con- 
veyed as  much  of  the  sublime  as  the  mitrod- 
deii  pathways  of  the  Jungfrau.     The  softy 
dimly  perceived  that  Mellish  Park  was  beau- 
tiful, and  he  felt  a  fiercer  hatr^'d  against  the  1 
person  whose  influence  had  ejected  hifli  from  j 
his  old  home.  ] 

The  house  fronted  the  south,  and  the  Vene- 
tian shuttei-s  were  all  closed  upon  this  hot  i 
summer's  day.  Stephen  Hargraves  looked  ; 
for  his  old  enemy  Bow-wow,  who  was  likely  ' 
enough  to  be  lying  on  the  Inoad  stone  steps  ) 
before  the  hall-door;  but  there  was  no  sif^n  of  j 
the  dog's  presence  anywhere  about.  The  ! 
hall-door  was  closed,  and  the  Venetian  shut- ' 
ters,  under  tJK;  rose  and  clematis  shadowed  | 
veranda  which  sheltered  John  Melli<h'~  room,  ' 


were  also  closed.  The  softy  walked  round  b^ 
the  fencjs  which  encircled  the  lawn  to  anothe* 
iron  gate  which  opened  close  to  John's  room 
and  which  was  so  completely  overshadowe( 
by  a  clump  of  beeches  as  to  form  a  safe  poin 
of  observation.  This  gate  had  been  left  ajai 
by  Mr.  Mellish  himself,  most  likely,  for  tha' 
gentleman  had  a  happy  knack  of  forgettinj; 
to  shut  the  doors  and  gates  which  he  opened 
and  the  sotly,  taking  courage  from  the  still 
ness  around  and  about  the  house,  venturet 
into  the  gai-den,  and  crept  stealthily  towarc 
the  closed  shutters  before  the  windows  of  Mr. 
Mellish's  apartment,  with  much  of  the  mannej 
whicth  might  distinguish  some  wretched  mon 
grel  cur  who  trusts  himself  within  earshot  of  j 
mastiff's  kennel. 

The  mastiff  was  out  of  the  way  on  this  oc- 
casion, for  one  of  the  shutter.<«  was  ajar;  am 
when  Stephen  Hargraves  peeped  cautiously 
into  the  room,  he  was  relieved  to  find  it  em])- 
ty.  John's  elbow-chair  was  pushed  a  little 
way  from  the  table,  which  was  laden  with 
open  pistol-cases  and  bree(  h-loading  revolvers 
Ihese,  with  two  or  three,  .silk  handlvcrchlefs,  s 
piece  of  chamois  leather,  and  a  bottle  of  oil 
bore  witness  that  Mr.  Mellish  had  been  be- 
guiling the  morning  by  the  pleasing  occupa- 
tion of  inspecting  and  cleaning  the  (ire-arms 
vrhich  formed  t)ie  chief  ornaments  of  hi' 
study. 

It  was  his  habit  to  begin  this  operation  with 
great  j)reparation,  and  altogether  upon  a  gi- 
gantic scale  ;  to  reject  all  assistance  with 
scorn;  to  put  himself  in  a  violent  perspiration 
at  the  enil  of  half  an  hour,  and  to  send  one  ol 
the  servants  to  finish  the  business,  and  reston 
the  room  to  its  old  order. 

The  softy  looked  with  a  covetous  eye  at  th» 
noble  array  of  guns  an<l  pistols.  H<;  had  that 
innate  love  of  these  things  which  set;ms  to  b 
implanted  in  every  breast,  whatever  its  own- 
er's state  or  station.  He  had  hoarded  hi^ 
money  once  to  buy  himself  a  gun  ;  but  when 
he  had  saved  the  five-aud-thirty  shillings  de- 
manded by  a  certain  pawnbroker  of  Doncaa 
t^r  for  an  old-fashioned  musket,  which  wa! 
almost  as  heavy  as  a  small  cannon,  his  cour 
age  failed  him,  and  he  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  part  with  the  precious  coins,  whost 
very  touch  could  send  a  thrill  of  rapture 
through  the  slow  current  of  his  blood.  No: 
he  could  not  surrender  such  a  sum  of  money 
to  the  Doncaster  pawnbroker  even  for  the 
possession  of  his  heart's  desire ;  and  as  the 
stern  money-lender  refused  to  take  payment 
in  weekly  instalments  of  sixpences,  Stephen 
was  fain  to  go  without  the  gun,  and  to  hope 
that  some  day  or  other  Mr.  John  Mellisb 
would  reward  his  services  by  the  gift  of  somoja 
disused  fowling-piece  by  Forsythe  or  Manton;  1 
But  there  was  no  hope  of  such  happiness  nowJt 
A  new  dynasty  reigned  at  Mellish,  and  a 
black-eyed  queen,  who  hated  him,  had  forbid- 
den him  to  sullv  her  domain  with   the  tra'-esn 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


11! 


of  hi«  sl),-iinbling  foot.  Ho  Mt  tliat  lie  was 
In  momentary  peril  u])on  the  threshold  of  tliat 
«a<Te(l  chamb'T,  which,  dnring  his  long  ser- 
vice at  Mellish  Park,  he  had  always  reearded 
as  a  very  temple  of  the  beautiful  ;  but  the 
sijrht  of  fire-.irms  upon  the  table  had  a  mag- 
netic attraction  for  him,  and  he  drew  the  Ve- 
j  netian  shutters  a  little  Avay  farther  ajar,  and 
slid  himself  in  through  the  open  window. 
Then,  flushed  and  trembling  with  excitement, 
he  dropped  into  John's  chair,  and  began  to 
handle  the  precious  implements  of  warfare 
upon  pheasants  and  partridges,  and  to  turn 
(  them  about  in  his  big,  clumsy  hands. 

Delicious  as  the  guns  were,  and  delishtful 
though  it  was  to  draw  one  of  the  revolvers 
uj)  to  his  shoulder,  and  take  aim  at  an  imagi- 
nary pheasant,  the  pistols  were  even  still 
more  attractive,  for  with  them  he  could  not 
refrain  from  taking  imaginary  aim  at  his  ene- 
mies ;  sometimes  at  James  Convers,  who  had 
snubbed  and  abused  him,  and  had  made  the 
bread  of  dependence  bitter  to  him ;  very  of- 
ten at  Aiirora;  once  or  twice  at  poor  John 
Mcliish  ;  but  always  with  a  darkness  upon  his 
jwllid  face  which  wouM  have  promised  little 
mercy  liad  the  pistol  been  loaded  and  the  ene- 
my near  at  hand. 

There  was  one  pistol,  a  small  one,  and  an 
odd  one  apparently,  for  he  could  not  find  its 
fellow,  wliich  took  a  peculiar  hold  upon  his 
fancy.  It  was  as  pretty  as  a  lady's  toy,  and 
small  enough  to  be  carried  in  a  lady's  pocket; 
but  the  hammer  snapped  upon  the  nipple, 
when  the  softy  pulled  the  trigger,  with  a  sound 
i(|that  evidently  meant  mischief. 

"  To  think  that  such  a  little  thing  as  this 
could  kill  a  big  man  like  you,"  muttered  Mr. 
Hargraves,  with  a  jerk  of' his  head  iu  the  di- 
rection of  the  north  lodge. 

He  had  this  pistol  still  in  his  hand  when  the 
door  was  suddenly  opened,  and  Aurora  Mel- 
lish stood  upon  the  threshold. 

She  spoke  as  she  opened  the  door,  almost 
before  siie  was  in  the  rooin. 

"John,  dear,"  she  said,  "Mrs.  Powell  wants 
to  know  whether  Colonel  Maddison  dines  here 
to-day  with  the  Lofthouses." 

She  drew  back  with  a  shudder  that  shook 
h<  1-  from  head  to  foot  as  her  eyes  met  the 
(iiy's  hated  face  instead  of  John's  familiar 
ilance. 

In  spite  of  the  fatigue  and  agitation  wliich 
die  had  endured  within  the  last" few  days,  she 
was  not  looking  ill.  Her  eyes  were  unnatu- 
rally bright,  and  a  feverish  color  burned  in 
her  cheeks.  Her  manner,  always  impetuous, 
was  restless  and  impatient  to-day,  as  if  her 
lature  had  been  charged  with  a  terrible 
amount  of  electricity,  till  she  were  likely  at 
my  moment  to  explode  in  some  tempest  of 
mger  or  woe. 

"  You  here  !"  she  exclaimed. 

The  softy,  in  his  embarrassment,  was  at  a 
OSS  for  an  excuse  for  his  presence.    He  pulled 


his  shabby  hare-skin  cap  off,  and  twisted  it 
round  and  round  in  his  great  hands,  but  he 
made  no  other  recognition  of  his  late  ma.ster's 
wife. 

"  Who  sent  you  to  this  room  V"  asked  Mrs. 
Mellish  ;  "  I  thought  you  had  been  forbidden 
this  place  —  the  house  at  least."  she  added, 
her  face  crimsoning  indignantly  as  she  spoke, 
"  although  Mr.  Conyers  may  choose  to  bring 
you  to  the  north  lodge.  Who  sent  yon 
here  V" 

"  Him,"  answered  Mr.  Hargraves,  doggedly, 
with  another  jerk  of  his  head  toward  the 
trainer's  abode. 

"  James  Convers  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  does  he  want  here,  then  ?"* 

"  He  told  me  to  come  down  t'"  th"  house, 
and  see  if  you  and  the  master  'd  come  back." 

"  Then  you  can  go  and  tell  him  that  we 
have  come  back,"  she  said  contemptuously, 
"and  that  if  he  'd  waited  a  little  longer,  lie 
would  have  had  no  occasion  to  send  hi?  spies 
after  me." 

The  softy  crept  toward  the  window,  feeling 
that  his  dismissal  was  contained  in  these 
words,  and  looking  rather  suspiciously  at  the 
array  of  driving  and  hunting  whips  over  the 
mantle-piece.  Mrs.  iSIellish  might  have  a 
fancy  for  laying  one  of  these  about  his  shoul- 
ders if  he  happened  to  offend  her. 

"  Stop !"  she  said,  impetuotisly.  as  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  shutter  to  push  it  open  ; 
"  since  you  are  here,  you  cati  take  a  message, 
or  a  scrap  of  writing,"  she.  said,  contemptu- 
ously, as  if  she  could  not  bring  henself  to  call 
any  communication  between  herself  and  Mr. 
Conyers  a  note  or  letter.  "Yes;  you  can 
take  a  few  lines  to  your  master.  .Stop  fTicre 
while  I  write." 

She  waved  her  hand  with  a  gesture  which 
expressed  plainly,  "  Come  no  nearer ;  you  are 
too  obnoxious  to  be  endured  except  at  a  dis- 
tance," and  seated  herself  at  John's  writing- 
table. 

She  sci-atehed  two  lines  with  a  quill  pen 
upon  a  slip  of  paper,  which  she  folded  while 
the  ink  was  still  wet.  She  looked  for  an  en- 
velope among  her  husband's  littered  parapher- 
nalia of  account-books,  bills,  receipts,  and 
price-lists,  and,  finding  one  after  .some  little 
trouble,  put  the  folded  paper  into  it,  fastened 
the  gummed  flaps  with  her  lips,  and  handed 
the  missive  to  Mr.  Hargraves.  who  had 
watched  her  with  hungry  eyes,  eager  to  fath- 
om this  new  stage  in  the  mysterv. 

Was  the  two  thousand  pounds  in  that  en- 
velope V  he  thought.  No,  surely  such  a  sum 
of  money  must  be  a  huge  pile  of  gold  and 
silver  —  a  mountain  of  glittering  coin.  He 
had  seen  chocks  sometimes,  and  bank-notes, 
in  the  hands  of  Jjangley,  the  trainer,  and  he 
had  wondered  how  it  wa.s  that  money  c^ouhi 
be  represented  by  those  pitiful  bits  of  paper. 

•*  I  'd  ravther  have  't  i'  goold,"  he  thought  : 


112 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


'•  if  't  was  mine,  I  'd  have  it  all  i*  goold  and 
silver." 

He  Avas  very  glad  when  he  found  himself 
safely  clear  of  the  whips  and  Mrs.  John  Mel- 
lish,  and,  as  soon  as  he  reached  the  shelter  of 
the  thick  foliage  iiijou  the  northern  side  of 
the  Park,  he  set  to  work  to  examine  the  packet 
which  had  been  intrusted  to  him. 

Mrs.  Mellish  had  liberally  moistened  the 
adhesive  ilap  of  the  envelojie,  as  people  are 
apt  to  do  when  tliey  are  in  a  hurry ;  the  con- 
sequence of  which  carelessness  was  that  the 
gum  was  still  so  wet  that  Stephen  liar- 
graves  found  no  difficulty  in  opening  the  en- 
velope without  tearing  it.  He  looked  cau- 
tiously about  him,  convinced  liimself  that  he 
Avas  unobserved,  and  tlien  drew  out  the  slip  of 
paper.  It  contained  very  little  to  reward  liim 
tor  his  trouble — only  these  tew  words,  scrawled 
in  Aurora's  most  careless  hand  : 

"  Be  on  tlie  soutliern  side  of  the  wood, 
near  the  turnstile,  between  half-past  eight 
and  nine." 

The  softy  grinned  as  he  slowly  made  him- 
.self  master  of  this  communication. 

"  1l  's  onconunon  hard  wroitin',  t'  make  out 
th'  shapes  o'  tli'  letters,"  he  said,  as  he  finished 
his  task.  "  ^Vily  can't  gentlefolks  wroit  like 
Ked  Tiller  oop  at  th'  Red  Lion  —  priutin' 
loike.  It 's  easier  to  read,  and  a  deal  prettier 
to  look  at." 

He  refastened  the  envelope,  pressing  it 
down  with  his  dirty  thumb  to  make  it  adliere 
once  more,  and  not  much  improving  its  ap- 
pearance thereby. 

"■  He  's  one  of  your  rare  careless  chaps,"  he 
muttered,  as  he  surveyed  the  letter ;  "  he 
won't  stop  t'  e.\amine  if  it  's  been  opened 
before.  \V'hat  's  insoide  were  hardly  worth  th' 
trouble  of  openin'  it ;  but  perhaps  it  's  as  well 
to  know  it  too." 

Immediate]}'  after  Stephen  Hargraves  had 
disappeared  through  the  open  window,  Au- 
rora turned  to  leave  the  room  by  the  door, 
intending  to  go  in  search  of  her  husband. 

Siie  was  arrested  on  tiie  threshold  by  Mrs. 
Powell,  who  was  standing  at  the  door,  with 
the  submissive  and  deferential  patience  of 
paid  companionship  depicted  in  her  insipid 
face. 

^^  Does  Colonel  Maddison  dine  here,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Mellish?"  she  asked  meekly,  yet 
with  a  pensive  earnestness  which  suggested 
that  her  life,  or,  at  any  rate,  her  peace  of 
mind,  depended  upon  the  answer.  "  1  am  so 
an.xious  to  know,  for  of  course  it  will  make  a 
difference  with  the  fish  —  and  perhajjs  we 
ought  to  have  some  mulligatawny,  or,  at  any 
rate,  a  dish  of  cun-y  among  the  enlrtes,  for 
these  elderly  East-Indian  officers  are  so — " 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Aurora,  curtly. 
"Were  you  standing  at  the  door  long  before  I 
came  out,  Mrs.  Powell  V" 

"  Oil,  no,"  answered  the  ensign's  widow, 
"  not  long.     Did  vou  not  hear  me  knock  V" 


I  Mrs.  Powell  would  not  have  allowed  herself 
to  be  betrayed  into  anything  so  vulgar  as  an 
abbreviation  by  the  torments  of  the  rack,  and 
would  have  neatly  rounded  her  periods  while 
the  awful  wheel  was  stretching  every  muscle 
of  her  agonized  frame,  and  the  executioner 
waiting  to  give  the  coup  de  grace. 

"  Did  you  not  liear  mo  knock  V"  she  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Aurora,  "  you  did  n't  knock ! 
Did  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Mellish  made  an  alarming  pause  be- 
tween the  two  sentences. 

"  Oh,  yes,  too-wicc, '  answered  Mrs.  Powell, 
with    as    much    emphasis   as    was   consistent 
with  gentility  upon  the  elongated  word ;  '*  I 
knocked  too-wice ;  but  you   seemed  so   very., 
much  preoccupied  that — " 

"I  did  n't  hear  you,"  interrupted  Aurora; 
"  you  should  knock  rather  louder  when  you 
wiml  people  to  hear,  i\Irs.  Powell.  1 — I  came 
here  to  look  for  John,  and  I  shall  stop  to  put 
away  his  guns.  Careless  lellow  —  he  always, 
leaves  thorn  lying  about."  j 

"Shall  I  assist'you,  dear  Mrs.  Mellish?"   .    . 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you.' 

"  Rut  pray  allow  me — guns  are  so  interest- 
ing. Indeed,  there  is  very  little  either  in 
art  or  nature  which,  properly  considered,  is 
not — " 

'■  You  had  better  find  Mr.  Mellish,  and 
ascertain  if  the  colonel  does  dine  here,  I 
think,  Mrs.  Powell,"  interrupted  Aurora, 
shutting  the  lids  of  the  pistol-cases,  and  re- 
placing them  upon  their  accustomed  shelves. 

"  Oil,  if  you  wish  to  be  alone,  certainly," 
said  the  ensign's  widow,  looking  furtively  at 
Aurora's  face  bending  over  the  breech-loaxl- 
ing  revolvers,  and  then  walking  genteelly  and 
noiselessly  out  of  the  room. 

'•  Who  was  she  talking  to  ?"  thought  Mrs. 
Powell.  "I  could  hear  her  voice,  but  not  the 
other  person's.  I  suppose  it  was  Mr.  Mellish  5 
and  yet  he  is  not  generally  so  quiet." 

She  stopped  to  look  out  of  a  window  in  the 
corridor,  and  found  the  solution  of  her  doubts 
in  the  shambling  figure  of  the  softy  making 
his  way  northward,  creeping  stealthily  under 
shadow  of  the  plantation  that  bordered  the 
lawn.  Mrs.  Powell's  faculties  were  all  culti- 
vated to  a  state  of  unpleasant  perfection,  and 
she  was  able,  actually  as  well  as  figuratively, 
to  see  a  great  deal  farther  than  most  people. 

John  Mellish  was  not  to  be  found  in  the 
house,  and,  on  making  inquiries  of  some  of 
the  servants,  Mrs.  Powell  learned  that  he  had 
strolled  up  to  the  north  lodge  to  see  the 
trainer,  who  was  confined  to  his  bed. 

"Indeed!"  said  the  ensign's  widow;  "then 
I  think,  as  we  really  ought  to  know  about 
the  colonel  and  the  mulligatawny,  I  will 
walk  to  the  north  lodge  myself  and  see  Mr. 
Mellish." 

She  took  a  sun-umbrella  from  the  stand  in 
the  hall,  and  crossed  the  lawn  northward  at  a 
smart  pace,  in  spite  of  the  heat  of  the  July, 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


113 


noontide.  "  If  I  can  get  there  before  Har- 
graves,"  she  thought*  "  I  may  be  able  to  find 
out  why  he  came  to  the  house." 

The  ensign's  widow  did  reach  the  lodge 
before  Steplieu  Hargraves,  who  stopped,  as 
we  know,  under  shelter  of  the  foliage  in  the 
loneliest,  pathway  of  the  wood  to  decipher 
Aurora's  scrawl.  She  found  John  Mcllish 
seated  with  the  trainer,  in  the  little  parlor  of 
the  lodge,  discussing  the  stable  arrangement; 
the  master  talking  with  considerable  anima- 
tion, the  servant  listening  with  a  listless  non- 
chalance which  had  a  certain  air  of  deprecia- 
tion, not  to  say  contempt,  for  poor  John's 
racing-stud.  Mr.  Couycrs  had  risen  from  his 
bed  at  the  sound  of  his  em[)!oyer's  voice  in 
the  little  room  below,  and  had  put  on  a  dusty 
shooting-coat  and  a  pair  of  shabby  slip))ers, 
in  order  to  come  down  and  hear  what  Mr. 
Mellish  had  to  say. 

"  1  'm  sorry  to  hear  you  're  ill,  Conyers," 
John  said,  heartily,  with  a  freshness  in  his 
strong  voice  which  seemed  to  carry  health 
and  strength  in  its  every  tone ;  "  as  you 
were  n't  well  enough  to  look  in  at  the  house, 
I  thought  I  'd  come  over  here  and  talk  to  you 
about  business.  I  want  to  know  whether  we 
ought  to  take  Monte  Cristo  out  of  his  York 
engagement,  and  if  you  think  it  would  be 
wise  to  let  Northern  Dutchman  take  his 
chance  for  the  Great  Ebor.     Hey  '?" 

Mr.  Mellish's  query  resounded  through  the 
small  room,  and  made  the  languid  trainer 
shudder.  Mr.  Conyers  had  all  the  peevish 
susceptibility  to  discomfort  or  inconvenience 
which  go  to  make  a  man  above  his  station. 
Is  it  a  merit  to  be  above  one's  station,  I  won- 
<ler,  that  people  make  such  a  boast  of  their 
unfitness  lor  honest  employments,  and  sturdy 
but  progressive  labors  The  flowers,  in  the 
fables,  that  want  to  be  trees,  always  get  the 
worst  of  it,  I  remember.  Perhaps  that  is 
because  they  can  do  nothing  but  complain. 
There  is  no  objection  to  their  growing  into 
trees,  if  they  can,  I  suppose,  but  a  great  ob- 
jection to  tiieir  being  noisy  and  disagreeable 
because  thwy  can't.  With  the  son  of  the 
simple  Corsican  advocate,  who  made  himself 
Empeiorof  France,  the  world  had  every  sym- 
pathy, but  with  poor  Louis  Philippe,  who  ran 
away  from  a  throne  at  the  first  shock  that 
disturbed  its  eiiuilibriura,  I  fear,  very  little. 
Is  it  quite  right  to  be  angry  with  the  world 
because  it  worships  success;  tor  is  not  success, 
in  some  manner,  the  stamp  of  divinity  ?  Self- 
assertion  may  deceive  the  ignorant  for  a  time, 
but,  when  the  noise  dies  away,  we  cut  open 
the  druui,  and  find  that  it  was  emptiness  that 
made  the  music  Mr.  Conyers  contented  him- 
Belf  with  de(  bring  that  he  walkeil  on  a  road 
which  was  unworthy  of  his  footsteps,  but  as 
he  never  contriv(;d  to  get  an  inch  farther 
upon  the  great  highway  of  life,  there  is  some 
reason  to  suppose  that  he  had  his  opinion 
«MUireIy  to  himsclt*.  Mr.  Mellish  and  bis 
8 


trainer  were  still  discussing  stable  matters 
when  Mrs.  Powell  reached  the  north  lodge. 
She  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  rustic 
doorway,  waiting  for  a  pause  in  the  conversa- 
tion. She  was  too  well-bred  to  interrupt  Mr. 
Mellish  in  his  talk,  and  there  was  a  chance 
that  she  miglit  hear  something  by  lingering. 
No  contrast  could  be  stronger  than  that  pre- 
sented by  the  two  men.  John,  broad-shoul- 
dered and  stalwart ;  his  short,  crisj)  chestnut 
hair  brushed  away  from  his  square  forehead  ; 
his  bright,  open  blue  eyes  beaming  honest 
sunshine  upon  all  they  looked  at;  his  loose 
gray  clothes  neat  and  well  ma<le  ;  his  shirt  in 
tlie  first  fi-eshness  of  the  morning's  toilet; 
everything  about  him  made  beautiful  by  the 
easy  grace  which  is  the  peculiar  property  of 
the  man  who  has  been  horn  a  gentleman, 
and  which  neither  all  the  cheap  finery  which 
Mr.  Moses  can  sell,  nor  all  the  expensive 
absurdities  which  Mr.  Tittlebat  Titmouse  can 
buy,  will  ever  bestow  upon  tha  parvenu  or  the 
vulgarian ;  the  trainer,  handsomer  than  his 
master  by  as  much  as  Antinous  in  Grecian 
marble  is  handsomer  than  the  substantially- 
shod  and  loose-coated  young  sguires  in  Mr. 
Millais's  designs;  as  handsome  as  it  is  possible 
tor  this  human  clay  to  be,  with  every  leature 
moulded  to  the  highest  ty^)e  of  positive  beauty, 
and  yet  every  inch  of  him  a  boor ;  his  shirt 
soiled  and  crumpled,  his  hair  rough  and  un- 
combed ;  his  unshaven  chin  dark  with  the 
blue  bristles  of  his  budding  beard,  and 
smeared  with  the  traces  of  last  night's  liquor ; 
his  dingy  hands  supporting  this  dingy  chin, 
and  his  elbows  bursting  half  out  of  the  frayed 
sleeves  of  his  shabby  shooting-jacket,  leaning 
on  the  table  in  an  attitude  of  indifferent  inso- 
lence; his  countenance  expressive  of  nothing 
but  dissatisfaction  with  his  own  lot,  and  con- 
tempt for  the  opinions  of  other  people.  All 
the  homilies  that  could  be  preached  upon  the 
time-worn  theme  of  beauty  and  its  worthless- 
ness  could  never  argue  so  strongly  as  this 
mute  evidence  presented  by  Mr.  Conyers 
himself  in  his  slouching  posture  and  his  un- 
kempt hair.  Is  beauty,  then,  so  little,  one 
asks,  on  looking  at  the  trainer  and  his  em- 
ployer? Is  it  better  to  be  clean,  and  well- 
dressed,  and  gentlemanly,  than  to  have  a 
classical  profile  and  a  thrice-worn  shirt? 

Finding  very  little  to  interest  her  in  John's 
stable-talk,  Mrs.  Powell  made  her  presence 
known,  and  once  more  asktid  the  all-impor- 
tant (juestion  about  Colonel  Madilison. 

"Yes,"  John  answered,  ''the  old  boy  is 
sure  to  come.  Let  'a  have  plenty  of  chutnec, 
and  boiled  rice,  and  preserved  ginger,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  unpleasant  things  that  Indian 
officers  live  ufX)n.     Have  you  seen  Lolly  ?" 

Mr.  Mellish  put  on  his  hat,  gave  a  last  in- 
struction to  the  trainer,  and  left  the  cottage. 

"  Have  you  seen  Lolly  ?"  he  asked  again. 

"  Ye-es,"  replied  Mrs.  Powell ;  "  1  have 
only  lately  left  Mra.  Mellish   is  your  room; 


114 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


she    had   been  speaking  to  that  half-witted 
person  —  Hargraves  I  tliiiik  he  is  called." 

"  Speaking  to  hhnf"  cried  John;  "speaking 
to  hira  in  m)-  room  ?  Why,  the  fellow  is  for- 
bidden to  cross  the  threshold  of  the  house, 
and  Mrs.  Mellish  abominates  the  sight  of  him. 
Don't  you  remember  the  day  he  flogged  her 
dog,  you  know,  and  Lolly  horse  —  had  hys- 
terics?" added  Mr.  Mellish,  choking  himself 
■with  one  word  and  substituting  another. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  that  little  —  ahem  — 
unfortunate  occurrence  perfectly,"  replied 
Mrs.  Powell,  in  a  tone  which,  in  spite  of  its 
amiability,  implied  that  Aurora's  escapade 
was  not  a  thing  to  be  easily  forgotten. 

"  Then  it  's  not  likely,  you  know,  that  Lolly 
would  talk  to  the  man.  You  must  be  mista- 
ken, Mrs.  Powell." 

The  ensign's  widow  simpered,  and  lifted  her 
eyebrows,  gently  shaking  her  head  with  a  gest- 
ure that  seemed  to  say,  "Did  you  ever  find 
me  mistaken  ?" 

"No,  no,  my  dear  Mr.  Mellish,"  she  said, 
with  a  half-playful  air  of  conviction,  "there 
was  no  mistake  on  my  part.  Mrs.  Mellish  was 
talking  to  tlje  half-witted  person;  but  you 
know  the  person  is  a  sort  of  servant  to  Mr. 
Conyers,  and  Mrs.  Mellish  may  have  had  a 
message  for  Mr.  Conyers." 

"  A  message  for  him !"  roared  John,  stop- 
ping suddenly,  and  planting  his  stick  upon  the 
jrround  in  a  movement  of  unconcealed  pas- 
sion ;  "  what  messages  should  she  have  for 
Mm  ?  Why  should  she  want  people  fetching 
and  carrying  between  her  and  him  ?" 

Mrs.  Powell's  pale  eyes  lit  up  with  a  faint 
yellow  flame  in  their  greenish  pupils  as  John 
broke  out  thus.  "  It  is  coming — it  is  coming 
— it  is  coming  !"  her  envious  heart  cried,  and 
she  felt  that  a  fainJ*  flush  of  triumph  was 
gathering  in  her  sickly  cheeks. 

But  in  another  moment  John  Mellish  re- 
covered his  self-command.  He  was  atigry 
with  himself  for  that  transient  passion.  "Am 
I  going  to  doubt  her  again  ?"  he  thought. 
"  Do  I  know  so  little  of  the  nobility  of  her 
generous  soul  that  I  am  ready  to  listen  to 
every  whisper,  and  terrify  myself  with  every 
look  ?" 

They  had  walked  about  a  hundred  yards 
away  from  the  lodge  by  this  time.  John 
turned  irresolutely,  as  if  half  inclined  to  go 
back. 

"  A  message  for  Conyers,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Powell ;  "  ay,  ay,  to  be  sure.  It  's  likely 
enough  she  might  want  to  send  him  a  mes- 
sage, for  she  's  cleverer  at  all  the  stable 
business  than  I  am.  It  was  she  who  told  me 
not  to  enter  Cherry-stone  for  the  Chester 
Cup,  and,  egad  !  I  was  obstinate,  and  I  was 
licked — as  1  deserved  to  be,  for  not  listening 
to  my  dear  girl." 

Mrs.  Powell  would  fain  have  boxed  John's 
ear,  had  she  been  tall  enough  to  reach  that 
organ.    Infatuated  fool !  would  he  never  open 


his  dull  eyes  and  see  the  ruin  that  was  pre- 
paring for  him  ? 

"  You  are  a  good  husband,  Mr.  Mellish," 
she  said,  with  gentle  melancholy.  "  Your 
wife  ought  to  be  happy  !"  she  added,  Avith  a 
sigh  which  plainly  hinted  that  Mrs.  Mellish 
was  miserable. 

"  A  good  husband  !"  cried  John  ;  "  not  half 
good  enough  for  her.  What  can  I  do  to  prove 
that  I  love  her?  What  can  I  do?  Nothing, 
except  to  let  her  have  her  own  way ;  and 
what  a  little  that  seems !  Why,  if  she  wanted 
to  set  that  house  on  fire,  for  the  pleasure  of 
making  a  bonfire,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the 
rambling  mansion  in  which  his  blue  eyes  had 
first  seen  the  light,  "  I  'd  let  her  do  it,  and 
look  on  with  her  at  the  blaze." 

"  Are  you  going  back  to  the  lodge  ?"  Mrs. 
Powell  asked  quietly,  not  taking  any  notice  of 
this  outbreak  of  marital  enthusiasm. 

They  had  retraced  their  steps,  and  were 
within  a  few  paces  of  the  little  garden  before 
the  north  lodge. 

"  Going  back  ?"  said  John;  "  no — yes." 
Between  his  utterance  of  the  negative  and 
the  affirmative  he  had  looked  up  and  seen 
Stephen  Hargraves  entering  the  little  garden- 
gate.  The  softy  had  come  by  the  short  cut 
through  the  wood.  John  Mellish  quickened 
his  pace,  and  followed  Stceve  Hargraves 
across  the  little  garden  to  the  threshold  of 
the  door.  At  the  threshold  he  paused.  The 
rustic  porch  was  thickly  screened  by  the 
spreading  branches  of  the  roses  and  honey- 
suckle, and  John  was  unseen  by  those  within. 
He  did  not  himself  deliberately  listen  ;  he 
only  waited  for  a  few  moments,  wondering 
what  to  do  next.  In  those  few  moments  of 
indecision  he  heard  the  trainer  speak  to  his 
attendant : 

"  Did  you  see  her  V"  he  asked. 
"  Ay,  sure,  I  ."see  her." 
"  And  slie  gave  you  a  message  ?" 
"  No,  she  gave  me  this  here." 
"  A  letter  !"  cried  the  trainer's  eager  voice  ; 
"  give  it  me." 

John  Mellish  heard  the  tearing  of  the  en- 
velope and  the  crackling  of  the  crisp  paper, 
and  knew  that  his  wife  had  been  writing  to 
his  servant.  He  clenched  his  strong  right 
hand  until  the  nails  dug  into  the  muscular 
palm  ;  then  turning  to  Mrs.  Powell,  who  stood 
close  behind  him,  simpering  meekly,  as  she 
would  have  simpered  at  an  earthquake,  or  a 
revolution,  or  any  other  national  calamity  not 
peculiarly  affecting  herself,  he  ssMd  quietly : 

"Whatever  directions  Mrs.  Mellish  has 
given  are  sure  to  be  right;  I  won't  interfere 
with  them."  He  walked  away  from  the  north 
lodge  as  he  spoke,  looking  straight  before  him, 
homeward,  as  if  the  unclianging  load-star  of 
his  honest  heart  were  beckoning  to  him  across 
the  dreary  Slough  of  Despond,  and  bidding 
him  take  comfort. 

"  Mrs.    Powell,"   he    said,   turning    rather 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


iir) 


sharply  upon  tlic  on^ijin's  widow,  "  I  shoxild 
be  very  sorry  to  say  anything  likely  to  oftond 
you,  in  your  oliaracter  of — of  a  guest  beneath 
my  roof;  but  I  shall  take  it  as  a  favor  to  my- 
self if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  remember 
that  I  require  no  information  respecting  my 
wife's  movements  from  you,  or  from  any  one. 
Whatever  Mrs.  ^lellish  does,  she  does  with 
my  full  consent,  my  perfect  approbation. 
CjBsar's  wife  must  not  be  suspected,  and,  by 
Jove,  ma'am — you  'II  pardon  the  expression — 
John  Mellish's  wife  must  not  be  watched." 

"  Watched  !  information  !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Powell,  lifting  her  pals  eyebrows  to  the  ex- 
treme limits  allowed  by  nature.  "  My  dear 
Mr.  Mellish,  when  I  really  only  casually  re- 
marked, in  reply  to  a  question  of  your  own, 
that  I  believed  Mrs.  Mellish  had — '' 

"  Oh  yes,"  answered  John,  "  I  understand. 
There  are  several  ways  by  which  you  can  go 
to  Doncaster  from  this  house.  You  can  go 
across  the  fields,  or  round  by  Plarper's  Com- 
mon, an  out-of-the-way,  roundabout  route, 
but  you  get  there  all  the  same,  you  know, 
ma'am.  /  generally  prefer  the  high-road.  It 
may  n't  be  the  shortest  way,  perhaps,  but  it  's 
f-ertainly  the  straightest." 

Tlie  corners  of  Mrs.  Powell's  thin  lower  lip 
dropped  perhaps  the  eighth  of  an  inch  as 
John  made  these  observations,  but  she  very 
quickly  recovered  her  habitual  genteel  simper, 
and  told  Mr.  Mellish  that  he  really  had  such  a 
ilroll  way  of  expressing  himself  as  to  make 
his  meaning  scarcely  so  clear  as  could  be 
wished. 

But  John  had  said  all  that  he  wanted  to 
say,  and  walked  steadily  onward,  looking  al- 
ways toward  that  (]uarter  in  which  the  pole- 
star  might  be  supposed  to  shine,  guiding  him 
back  to  his  home. 

That  home  so  soon  to  be  desolate !  with 
such  ruin  brooding  above  it  as  in  his  darkest 
doubts,  his  wildest  fears,  he  had  never  shad- 
owed forth. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ON    THIi   THRESHOLD  OK  DAIiKKU   .MISKRIE6.  I 

John  went  straight  to  his  own  apartment  to  j 
look  for  his  wife  :  t)ut  he  found  the  guns  put 
back  in  their  usual  places,  and  the  ro<mi  empty. 
Aurora's  maid,  a  smartly -dressed  girl,  came  ' 
tripping  out  of  the  servants'  hall,  where  the 
rattling  of  knives  and  forks  announced  that  a 
very  substantial  dinner  was  being  done  sub- 
stantial justice  to,  to  answer  John's  «,ager  in- 
quiries. She  told  him  that  Mrs.  Mellish  had 
complained  of  a  headache,  and  had  gone  to 
her  room  to  lie  down.  John  went  up  stairs, 
and  crept  cautiously  along  the  carpeted  cor- 
ridor, fearful  of  every  footfall  whieh  might 
break  the  rej)ose  of  his  wife.  The  floor  of 
her  dressing-room  was  ajar;  he  pushed  it 
"oftly  open,  and  went  in.     Aurora  was  lying 


upon  the  sofa,  wrapped  in  a  loose  white  dress- 
ing-gown, her  masses  of  ebon  liair  uncoiled 
and  falling  about  her  shoulders  in  serpentine 
tresses  that  looked  like  shining  blue -black 
snakes  releas.ed  from  poor  Medusa's  head  to 
make  their  escape  amid  the  folds  of  her  gar- 
ments. Heaven  knows  what  a  stranger  sleep 
may  have  been  for  many  a  night  to  Mrs.  Mel- 
lish's pillow,  but  she  had  fallen  into  a  heavy- 
slumber  on  this  hot  summer's  day.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  with  a  feverish  crimson, 
and  one  small  hand  lay  under  her  head, 
twisted  in  the  tangled  masses  of  her  glorious 
hair. 

John  bent  over  her  with  a  tender  smile. 

"  Poor  girl,"  he  thought ;  "  Thank  God  that 
she  can  sleep,  in  sjiite  of  the  miserable  secret.*? 
which  have  come  between  us.  Talbot  Bul- 
strode  left  her  because  he  coidd  not  bear  the 
agony  that  I  am  suffering  now.  What  causfe 
had  he  to  doubt  her  ?  What  cause  compared 
to  that  which  1  have  had  a  fortnight  ago — th« 
other  night — this  morning  ?  And  yet  —  and 
yet  I  tru.st  her,  and  will  trust  her,  please  God. 
to  the  very  end." 

He  seated  himself  in  a  low  easy-chair  clf»^ 
beside  the  sofa  upon  which  his  sle.e])ing  wife 
lay,  and,  resting  his  head  upon  his  arm,  watch- 
ed her,  thought  of  her,  perhaps  prayed  for 
her,  and  after  a  little  while  fell  asleep,  snoring 
in  bass  harmony  with  Aurora's  regular  breath- 
ing. He  slept  and  snored,  this  horrible  man, 
in  the  hour  of  his  trouble,  and  behaved  him- 
self altogether  in  a  manner  most  unlx-coming 
in  a  hero.  But  then  he  is  not  a  hero.  He  i*? 
stout  and  strongly  built,  with  a  fine  bro;H 
chest,  and  unromantically  robust  health. ^ — 
There  is  more  chance  of  his  dying  of  apoplexy 
than  of  fading  gracefully  in  a  decline,  or 
breaking  a  blood-vessel  in  a  moment  of  in- 
tense emotion.  He  sleeps  calmly,  with  the 
warm  July  air  floating  in  upon  him  from  the 
open  window,  and  comforting  him  with  ite 
balmy  breath,  and  he  fully  enjoys  that  rest  of 
body  and  mind.  Yet  even  in  his  tranquil 
slumber  there  is  a  vague  souiething,  some 
lingering  shadow  of  the  bitter  memories  which 
sleep  has  put  away  from  him,  that  fdls  his 
breast  with  a  dull  pain,  an  oppressive  heavi- 
ness, wliich  can  not  be  shaken  ofl".  He  slept 
until  half  a  dozen  different  clocks  in  the 
rambling  old  house  had  come  to  one  conclu- 
sion, and  declared  it  to  be  five  in  the  after 
noon;  and  he  awoke  with  a  starf,  to  find  hi" 
wife  wat<hing  him.  Heaven  knows  how  i« 
tcntly,  with  her  black  eyes  filled  with  solemn 
thought,  and  a  strange  earnestness  in  hrr 
face. 

"  My  poor  John,"  she  said,  bending  hf  r 
beautiful  head  and  resting  her  burning  fore- 
head upon  liis  hand,  "  how  tired  you  must 
have  been  to  sleep  so  soundly  in  the  niWlfUe 
of  the  day  !  I  have  been  awake  for  nearly  an 
hour,  watching  you." 

*'  Watching  me,  Lolly — why  ?" 


116 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


"  And  thinking  how  good  you  are  to  me. 
Oh,  John,  John,  what  can  I  ever  do — what 
can  I  evw  do  to  atone  to  you  for  all — " 

"Be  happy,  Aurora,"  he  said,  huskily,  "be 
happy,  and — and  send  that  man  away." 

"  I  will,  John  ;  he  shall  go  soon,  dear  —  to- 
night !" 

"  What  I  then  that  letter  ■v\'as  to  dismiss 
him  ?"  asked  Mr.  Mellish. 

"  You  know  that  I  wrote  to  him  ?" 

"Yes,  darling,  it  was  to  dismiss  him  —  say 
that  it  was  so,  Aurora.  Pay  him  what  money 
you  like  to  keep  the  secret  that  he  discovered, 
but  send  him  aAvay,  Lolly,  send  him  away. 
The  sight  of  him  is  hateful  to  me.  Dismiss 
liim,  Aurora,  or  I  must  do  so  myself." 

He  rose  in  his  passionate  excitement,  but 
Aurora  laid  her  hand  softly  upon  his  arm. 

"  Leave  all  to  me,"  she  said,  cjuietly.  "Be- 
lieve me  that  I  will  act  for  the  best.  For  the 
best,  at  least,  if  you  could  n't  bear  to  lose  me; 
and  you  could  n't  bear  that,  could  you,  JohnV" 

"  Lose  you  !  My  God,  Aurora,  why  do  you 
say  such  things  to  me  ?  I  would  n'<  lose  you. 
Do  you  hear,  Lolly  ?  I  icould  n't.  I  'd  fol- 
low you  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  universe ; 
and  Heaven  take  pity  upon  those  that  came 
between  us." 

His  set  teeth,  the  fierce  light  in  his  eyes, 
and  the  iron  rigidity  of  his  mouth  gave  an 
emphasis  to  his  words  which  my  pen  could 
never  give  if  I  used  every  epithet  in  the 
English  language. 

Aurora  rose  from  her  sofa,  and,  twisting 
her  hair  into  a  thickly-rolled  mass  at  the  back 
of  her  head,  seated  herself  near  the  window, 
aad  pushed  back  the  Venetian  shutter. 

"  These  people  dine  here  to-day,  John  ?" 
she  asked,  listlessly. 

"  The  Lofthouses  and  Colonel  Maddison  ? 
Yes,  darling ;  and  it  's  ever  so  much  past  five. 
Shall  I  ring  for  your  afternoon  cup  of  tea  V" 

"  Yes,  dear,  and  take  some  with  me,  if  you 
will." 

I  'm  afraid  that  in  his  inmost  heart  Mr. 
Mellish  did  not  cherish  any  very  great  affec- 
tion for  tlie  decoctions  of  bohea  and  gunpow- 
der with  which  his  wife  dosed  him ;  but  he 
would  have  dined  upon  cod-liver  oil  had  slie 
served  the  ban(juet,  and  he  strung  his  nerves 
to  their  extreme  tension  at  her  supreme 
pleasure,  and  affected  to  highly  relish  the 
post  -  meridian  dishes  of  tea  which  his  wife 
poured  out  for  him  in  the  sacred  seclusion  of 
her  dressing-room. 

Mrs.  Powell  heard  the  comfortable  sound  of 
the  chinking  of  the  thin  egg-shell  china  and 
the  rattling  of  the  spoons  as  she  passed  the 
half-open  door  on  her  way  to  her  own  apart- 
ment, and  was  mutely  furious  as  she  thought 
that  love  and  harmony  reigned  within  the 
diamber  where  the  husband  and  wife  sat  at 
tea. 

Aurora  went  tlowrt  to  the  drawing-i-oom  an 
hour  after  this,  gorgeous  in  maize-colored  silk 


and  voluminous  flouncings  of  black  lace,  with 
her  hair  plaited  in  a  diadem  upon  her  head, 
and  fastened  with  three  diamond  stars  which 
John  had  bought  for  her  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix,  and  which  were  cunningly  fixed  upon 
wire  springs,  which  caused  them  to  vibrate 
with  every  chance  movement  of  her  beautiful 
head.  You  will  say,  perhaps,  that  she  was 
arrayed  too  gaudily  for  the  reception  of  an 
old  Lidian  officer  and  a  country  clergyman 
and  his  wife ;  but  if  she  loved  handsome 
dresses  better  than  simpler  attire,  it  was  from 
no  taste  for  display,  but  rather  from  an  innate 
love  of  splendor  and  expenditure,  which  was 
a  part  of  her  expansive  nature.  She  had  al- 
ways been  taught  to  think  of  herself  as  Miss 
Floyd,  the  banker's  daughter,  and  she  had 
been  taught  also  to  spend  money  as  a  duty 
which  she  owed  to  society. 

Mrs.  Lofthouse  was  a  pretty  little  woman, 
with  a  pale  face  and  hazel  eyes.  She  was 
the  youngest  daughter  of  Colonel  Maddison, 
and  was,  "  by  birth,  you  know,  my  dear,  far 
superior  to  poor  Mrs.  Mellish,  who,  in  spite  of 
her  wealth,  is  only,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,"  as  Mar- 
garet Lofthouse  remarked  to  her  female  ac- 
quaintance. She  could  not  very  easily  forget 
that  her  father  was  the  younger  brother  of  a 
baronet,  and  had  distinguished  himself  in  some 
terrific  manner  by  blood-thirsty  demolition  of 
Sikhs  far  away  in  the  untractable  East,  and 
she  thought  it  rather  hard  that  Aurora  should 
possess  such  cruel  advantages  through  some 
pettifogging  commercial  genius  on  the  part  of 
her  Glasgow  ancestors. 

But,  as  it  was  impossible  for  honest  people 
to  know  Aurora  without  loving  her,  Mrs. 
Lofthouse  heartily  forgave  her  her  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  declared  her  to  be  the  dear- 
est darling  in  the  wide  world ;  while  Mrs. 
Mellish  freely  returned  her  friendliness,  and 
caressed  the  little  woman  as  she  had  caressed 
Lucy  Bulstrode,  with  a  superb  yet  affectionate 
condescension,  such  as  Cleopatra  may  have 
had  for  her  handmaidens. 

The  dinner  weut  off  pleasantly  enough. 
Colonel  Maddison  attacked  the  side-dishes 
specially  provided  for  him,  and  praised  the 
Mellish-Park  cook.  Mr.  Lofthouse  explained 
to  Aurora  the  plan  of  a  new  school-house 
which  Mrs.  Mellisii  was  going  to  build  for  her 
husband's  parish.  She  listened  patiently  to 
the  rather  wearisome  details,  in  which  a  bcdce- 
hou.se,  and  a  wash-house,  and  a  Tudor  chim- 
ney seemed  the  leading  features.  She  had 
heard  so  much  of  this  before ;  for  there  was 
scarcely  a  church,  or  a  hospital,  or  a  model 
lodging-house,  or  a  refuge  for  any  misery  or 
destitution  whatever  that  had  been  lately 
elevated  to  adorn  this  earth  for  which  the 
banker's  daughter  had  not  helped  to  pay. 
But  her  heart  was  wide  enough  for  them  all, 
and  she  was  always  glad  to  hear  of  the  bake- 
house, and  wash-house,  and  the  Tudor  chim- 
ney all  over  again.     If  she  was  a,  little  less 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


117 


interested  upon  this  occasion  than  usual,  Mr.  j 
Lofthouse  did  not  observe  Iier  inattention,  for  ! 
in  the  simple  earnestness  of  his  own  mind  he  ! 
thoujjht  it  scarcely  possible  that  the   school-  ! 
house  topic  could  fail  to  be  interesting;.    Noth-  { 
ing  is  so  difficult  as  to  make  people  understand  j 
that  yon  don't  care  for  what  they  themselves 
especially  all'ect.     John  Mellish  could  not  be-  I 
lieve    that  the   entries    for   the    Great    Ebor  i 
were  not  interesting  to  Mr.   Lofthouse,  and 
the   country  clergyman   was  fully  convinced 
that  the  details  of  his  philanthropic  scheme!* 
for  the  regeneration  of  his  jiarish  could   not 
be  otherwise  than  delightful  to  his  host.     Hut 
the   master  of  Mellish  Park  was  very  silent, 
and   sat  with  his   glass  in  his  hand,  looking 
across  the  dinner-table  ami  Mrs.  Lofthouse's 
head  at  the  sunlit  tree-tops  between  the  lawn 
and  the  north  lodge.     Aurora,  from  her  end 
of  the  table,   saw  that  gloomy  glance,  and  a 
resolute  shadow  darkened  her  face,  expressive 
of  the  strengthening  of  some  rooted  purpose 
deep  hidden  in  her  heart.     She  sat  so  long  at 
dessert,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  an  apricot 
in  her  ]>late,  and  the  shadow  upon  her  face 
deepening  every  moment,  that  poor  Mrs.  Loft- 
house was  in  utter  despair  of  getting  the  sig- 
nificant look  which  was  to  release    her  from 
the  bondage  of  hearing  her  father's  stories  of 
tiger-shooting  and  pig-sticking  for  the  two  or 
three   hundredth   time.     IVrhaps   she    never 
would  have  got  that  feminine  signal  had  not 
Mrs.  Powell,  with  a  little  significaiit  "  hem," 
made  some  observation  about  the  sinking  sun. 

The  ensign's  widow  was  one  of  those  peo-  ' 
pie   who   declare  that  there  is   a  perceptible  ' 
difference  in  the  length  of  the  days  upon  the 
twenty -third  or   twenty-fourth    of  June,  and  ; 
who  go  on  announcing  the;  .«ame  tact  until  the 
long  winter  evenings  come  with  the  twenty- 
first  of  December,  and  it  is  time  for  them  to  ! 
declare  the  conver.<e  of  their  late  proposition.  ! 
It  was  some  remark  of  this  kind  that  aroused 
Mrs.  Mellish  from  her  reverie,  and  i-aused  her 
to  start  up  suddenly,  quite  forgetful  of  the 
conventional  simpering  beck  to  her  guest. 

"  Past  eight  I"  she  said  ;  "  no,  it  's  surely 
not  so  Iat«  V"  I 

"  Yes  it  is,  Loll)',  "  John  Mellish  answered,  ' 
looking  at  his  watdi,  "  a  quarter  past." 

"  Indeed  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Loft- 
house;  shall  we  go  into  the  drawing-room?" 

*'  Yes,  dear,  do,"  said  the  clergyman's  wife, 
"  and  let  '.•»  liave  a  nice  chat.  Papa  will 
drink  too  much  claret  if  he  tell.s  the  pig- 
sticking stories,"  she  added,  in  a  confidential 
whisper.  "  Ask  your  dear,  kind  htisban<l  not 
to  let  him  have  too  mu'h  <larct.  because  he  's 
sure  to  suffer  with  his  liver  to-morrow,  and 
say  that  Lofthouse  ought  to  have  restraineil 
him.  He  always  says  that  it  's  poor  Riginald's 
faidt  ff»r  not  restraining  him." 

John  looked  anxiously  after  his  wife,  as  he 
stoofl  with  the  dnor  in  his  hand,  while  tlu- 
three  ladies  crossed  the  hall.      He  bit  his  liji 


as  he  noticed  Mrs.  Powell's  unpleasantly  pre- 
cise figure  close  at  Aurora's  shoulder. 

"  I  think  I  spoke  pretty  plainly,  though, 
this  morning,"  he  thought,  as  he  closed  the. 
door  and  returned  to  his  friends. 

A  quarter  past  eight;  twenty  minutes  past; 
five-and-twenty  minutes  past.  Mrs.  Lofthou.se 
was  rather  a  brilliant  pianist,  and  was  never 
happier  than  when  interpreting  Thalbergand 
Benedict  upon  her  friends'  Collard  and  Col- 
lards.  There  were  old-fashioned  people  round 
Doncaster  who  believed  in  Collard  and  Col- 
lard, and  were  thankful  for  the  melody  to  be 
got  out  of  a  good,  honest  grand,  in  a  solirl 
rosewood  case,  unadorned  with  carved  glorifi- 
cation or  ormulu  fretwork.  At  seven -and- 
twenty  minutes  pa.5t  eight  Mrs.  Lofthouse  Avas 
sedated  at  Aurora's  piano,  in  the  first  agonies 
of  a  prelude  in  six  flats;  a  prelude  which  de- 
manded such  extraordinary  uses  of  the  left. 
hand  acro.ss  the  right,  and  the  right  over  the 
left,  and  such  exercise  of  the  thumbs  in  all 
sorts  of  positions — in  which,  according  to  all 
orthodox  theories  of  the  pre -Thai berg -ite 
school,  no  pianist's  thumbs  should  ever  be 
used  —  that  jlrs.  Mellish  felt  that  her  friend's 
attention  was  not  very  likely  to  wander  from 
the  keys. 

Within  the  long,  low-roofeil  drawing-room 
at  Mrllish  there  was  a  snug  little  apartment, 
hung  with  innocent  rosebud-sprinkled  chintzes, 
and  fui'nished  with  ma|)Ie-wood  chairs  an/1 
tables.  Mrs.  Lofthouse  had  not  been  seated 
at  the  piano  more  than  five  minutes  when 
Aurora  strolled  from  the  drawing-room  to  this 
inner  chamber,  leaviiig  her  guest  with  no  au- 
dience but  Mrs.  Powell.  She  lingered  for  a 
moment  on  t!ie  threshold  to  look  Lack  at  the 
ensign's  widow,  who  sat  near  the  piano  in  an 
attitude  of  rapt  attention. 

"  She  is  watching  me,"  thought  Aurora, 
"though  her  pink  eyelids  are  drooping  over 
her  eyes,  and  she  seems  to  be  looking  at  the 
border  of  her  pocket-handkerchief.  She  sees 
me  with  liir  chin  or  her  no.se,  perhaps.  How 
do  I  know  y  She  is  all  eyes !  Bah !  am  1 
going  to  be  afraid  of  lier,  when  I  was  never 
afraid  of  hiin  1  ^Vhat  should  I  fear  except — " 
her  hea<l  change<l  from  its  defiant  attitude  to 
a  drooping  posture,  and  a  sad  smile  curved 
her  crimson  lips — "except  to  make  you  un- 
happy, my  dear,  my  husband.  Yes,"  with  a 
sudilen  lifting  of  her  head,  and  reas.-iumption 
of  its  proud  defiance,  "my  own  true  husband; 
the  husband  who  has  kept  his  marriage  vow 
as  unpolluted  as  when  first  it  i.ssued  from  his 
lips!" 

I  am  writing  what  she  thought,  remember, 
not  what  hhe  said;  for  she  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  thinking  aloud,  nor  did  I  ever  know 
anybody  who  was. 

Aurora  took  up  a  shawl  that  she  had  flung 
upon  the  sofa,  and  threw  it  lightly  over  her 
head,  veiling  herself  with  a  ••Inud  of  black 
lai-e,   through    which    the    restless,  shivering 


118 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


diamonds  shone  out  like  stars  in  a  midnight 
sky.  She  looked  like  Hecate,  as  she  stood  on 
the  threshold  of  the  French  window,  lin<j;ering 
for  a  moment,  with  a  deep-laid  purpose  in  her 
heart,  and  a  resolute  light  in  her  eyes.  The 
clock  in  the  steeple  of  the  village  church 
Struck  tlie  three-quarters  after  eight  while 
she  lingered  for  those  few  moments.  As  tlie 
last  chime  died  away  in  the  summer  air,  she 
looked  up  darkly  at  the  evening  sky,  and 
walked  with  a  rapid  footstep  out  upon  the 
lawn  toward  tlie  southern  end  of  the  wood 
tlxat  bordered  the  Park. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

CAPTAIN    PRODDKR    CARRIES    HAD    NEWS   TO 

HIS  niece's  house. 

While  Aurora  stood  upon  the  threshold 
of  the  open  window,  a  man  was  lingering 
upon  the  broad  stone  steps  before  the  door  of 
the  entrance  hall,  remonstrating  with  one  of 
John  Mellish's  servants,  who  held  supercilious 
parley  with  the  intruder,  and  kept  him  at 
arm's  length  with  the  contemptuous  indilfer- 
ence  of  a  well-bred  s-ervant. 

The  stranger  was  Captain  Samuel  Prodder, 
who  had  arrived  at  Doncaster  late  in  the 
afternoon,  had  dined  at  the  "  Reindeer,"  and 
had  come  over  to  Mellish  Park  in  a  gig  driven 
by  a  hanger-on  of  that  establishment.  The 
fiig  and  the  hanger-on  were  both  in  waiting 
at  tlie  bottom  of  the  steps  ;  and  if  there  had 
been  anything  wanting  to  turn  the  balance  of  | 
the  footman's  contempt  ibr  Captain  Prodder's  i 
blue  coat,  loose  shirt-collar,  and  silver  Avatch- 
<;hain,  the  gig  from  the  "Reindeer"  would 
have  done  it. 

'•  Yes,  Mrs.  Mellish  is  at  home,"  the  gentle- 
man in  plush  replied,  after  surveying  the  sea- 
captain  with  a  leisui'ely  and  critical  air,  wliich 
was  i-ather  provoking  to  poor  Samuel,  "  but 
she  *s  engaged." 

*'  But  perhaps  she  'II  put  olT  her  engage- 
ments lor  a  bit  when  she  hears  who  it  is  as 
wants  to  see  her,"  answered  the  captain, 
diving  into  his  capacious  pocket.  "  She  '11 
tell  a  different  story,  I  dare  say,  when  you 
tiike  her  that  bit  of  pasteboard.' 

He  handed  the  man  a  card,  or  rather  let 
me  say  a  stiff  square  of  thick  pasteboard,  in- 
scribed with  his  name,  so  disguised  by  the 
flourishing  caprices  of  the  engraver  as  to  be 
not  very  easily  deciphered  by  unaccustomed 
eyes.'  The  card  bore  Captain  Prodder's  ad- 
dress as  well  as  his  name,  and  informed  his 
acquaintances  that  he  was  part  owner  of  the 
Nancjl  Jane,  and  that  all  consignments  of 
goods  were  to  be  made  to  hiin  at,  etc.,  etc. 

The  footman  took  the  document  between 
his  thumb  and  finger,  and  examined  it  as 
minutely  as  if  it  had  been  some  relic  of  the 
Middle  Ages.     A  new  light  dawned  upon  him 


as  he  deciphered  the  information  about  the 
Naricij  Jane,  and  he  looked  at  the  captain  for 
the  first  time  with'  some  approach  to  human 
interest  in  his  countenance. 

'•  Is  it  cigars  you  want  to  dispose  hofT,"  be 
asked,  "  or  bandannas  ?  If  it  's  cigars,  you 
might  come  round  to  our  'all,  and  show  us  the 
harticle." 

"  Cigars  !"  roared  Samuel  Prodder.     '•  Do 

you  take  me  for  a  smuggler,  you V"    Here 

followed  one  of  those  hearty  seafaring  epi- 
thets with  which  polite  Mr.  Chucks  was  apt 
to  finish  his  speeches.  "  I  'm  your  missus's 
own  uncle;  leastways  I  —  I  knew  her  mother 
when  she  was  a  little  gal,"  he  added,  in  con- 
siderable confusion  ;  for  he  remembered  how 
far  away  his  sea-captainship  thrust  him  from 
Mrs.  Mellish  and  her  well-born  husband  ;  "  so 
just  take  her  my  card,  and  look  sharp  about 
it,  will  you?" 

"  We  've  a  dinner-party,'  the  footman  said, 
coldly,  "  and  I  don't  know  if  the  ladies  have 
returned  to  the  drawing-room  ;  but  if  you  're 
anyways  related  to  missus  —  I  '11  go  and  see." 

The  man  strolled  leisurely  away,  leaving 
poor  Samuel  biting  his  nails  in  mute  vexaition 
at  having  let  slip  that  ugly  fact  of  her  rela- 
tionship. 

"  That  swab  in  the  same  cut  coat  a^'  Lord 
Nelson  wore  aboard  the  Victory,  will  look 
down  upon  her  now  he  knows  she  's  niece  to 
a  old  sea-captain  that  carries  dry  goods  on 
commission,  and  can't  keep  his  tongue  be- 
tween his  teeth,"  he  thought. 

The  footman  came  back  while  Samuel  Prod- 
der was  upbraiding  himself  for  his  folly,  and 
informed  him  that  Mrs.  Mellish  was  not  to  be 
found  in  the  house. 

"  Who  's  that  playin'  upon  the  pianer, 
then  ?"  asked  Mr.  Prodder,  with  skeptical 
bluntness. 

"  Oh,  that  's  the  clugyman's  wife,"  answer- 
ed the  man,  contemj)tuously,  "  a  ciddyvong 
guvness,  I  should  tliink,  for  she  plays  too  well 
for  a  real  lady.  Missus  don't  play— leastways 
only  pawlkers,  and  that  sort  of  think.  Good- 
night." 

He  closed  the  two  half-glass  doors  upon 
Captain  Prodder  without  farther  ceremony, 
and  shut  Samuel  out  of  his  niece's  house. 

"  To  think  that  I  played  hop-scotch  and 
swopped  marbles  for  hardbake  with  this  gal's 
mother,"  thought  the  captain,  ''  and  that  her 
servant  turns  up  his  nose  at  me,  and  shuts  the 
door  In  my  face  !" 

It  was  in  sorrow  rather  than  in  anger  that 
the  disappointed  sailor  thought  this.  He  had 
scarcely  hoped  for  anything  better.  It  was 
only  natural  that  tliose  about  his  niece  should 
flout  at  and  contemptuously  entreat  him.  Let 
him  get  to  her  —  let  him  come  only  for  a  mo- 
ment face  to  face  with  Eliza's  child,  and  he 
did  not  fear  the  issue. 

"  I  '11  walk  through  the  Park,"  he  said  to 
the  man  who  had  driven  him  from  Doncaster ; 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


119 


"  it  's  a  nice  evenin',  and  there  's  pleasant 
walks  under  the  trees  to  wiu'ard.  You  can 
drive  back  into  the  high-road,  and  wait  for 
me  agen  that  'ere  turnstile  I  took  notice  of  as 
we  come  along." 

The  driver  noddod,  smacked  his  wliip,  and 
drove  his  elderly  gray  pony  toward  the  Park 
gates.  Captain  Samuel  Prodiler  went  slowly 
and  deliberately  enough  —  the  way  that  it 
was  appointeci  for  him  to  go.  The  Park  was 
a  strange  territory  to  him  ;  but,  while  driving 
past  the  outer  boundaries,  he  had  looked  ad- 
miringly at  chance  openings  in  the  wood,  re- 
vealing grassy  amphitheatres  enriched  by 
spreaiiing  oaks,  whose  branches  made  a  shad- 
owy tracery  u\)nn  the  sunlit  turf.  He  had 
looked  with  a  seauian's  wonder  at  the  inland 
beauties  of  the  (juiet  <lomain,  and  had  pon- 
dered whether  it  might  not  be  a  pleasant 
thing  for  an  old  sailor  to  end  his  days  amid 
such  monotonous  woodland  trantjuillity,  far 
away  from  the  sound  of  wreck  and  tempest, 
and  the  mighty  voices  of  the  dreadful  deep; 
and,  in  his  disappointment  at  not  seeing  Auro- 
ra, it  was  some  consolation  to  the  captain  to 
uallc  across  the  dewy  grass  in  the  evening 
shadows  in  the  direction  where,  with  a  sail- 
or's unerring  topographical  instinct,  he  knew 
the  turnstile  must  be  situated. 

Perhaps  he  had  some  hope  of  meeting  his 
niece  in  the  patliway  across  the  Park.  The 
man  had  told  him  that  she  was  out.  She 
could  not  be  far  away,  as  there  was  a  dinner- 
party at  the  house,  and  she  was  scarcely  like- 
!}•  to  leave  her  guests.  She  was  wandering 
about  the  Park  most  likely  with  some  of  them. 

The  shadows  of  the  trees  grew  darker  upon 
the  grass  as  Captain  Prodder  drew  nearer  to 
the  wood;  but  it  was  tliat  sweet  sununer  time 
In  which  there  Is  scarcely  one  positively  dark 
hour  among  the  twenty-four;  and  though  the 
village  clock  chimed  the  half-hour  after  nine 
as  the  sailor  entered  the  wood,  he  was  able  to 
distinguish  the  outlines  of  two  "figures  advanc- 
ing toward  him  from  the  other  end  of  the  long 
arcade,  that  led  in  a  .slanting  direction  to  the 
turn.stile. 

The  figures  were  tliose  of  a  man  and  woman 
—  tlie  woman  wearing  some  light-colored 
dress,  which  shimmered  in  the  dusk;  the 
man  leaning  on  a  stick,  and  obviously  very 
lame. 

"Is  it  my  niece  and  one  of  her  visitors?" 
thouglit  the  captain  ;  "  maybe  it  is.  I  '11  lay 
by  to  i)ort  of  'em,  and  let  'em  pass  me." 

Samuel  Prodder  stepped  aside  under  the 
shadow  of  tlie  trees  to  the  left  of  the  grassy 
avenue  through  which  the  two  figures  were 
approaching,  and  waited  patiently  until  they 
drew  near  enough  for  him  to  distinguish 
the  woman's  fiice.  The  woman  was  Mrs. 
Mellish,  and  she  was  walking  on  the  left  of 
the  man,  and  was  therefore  nearest  to  the 
captain.  Her  head  waa  turueil  away  from 
her  companion,  as  if  in  utter  scorn  and  de- 


fiance of  him,  although  she  was  talking  to 
him  at  that  moment.  Her  face,  proud,  pale, 
and  disdainful,  was  visible  to  the  seaman  iu 
the  chill,  shadowy  light  of  the  newly-risen 
moon.  A  low  line  of  crimson  behind  the 
black  trunks  of  a  distant  group  of  trees  mark- 
ed where  the  sun  had  left  itii  last  track  in  a 
vivid  streak  that  looked, like  blood. 

Captain  Prodder  gazed  in  loving  wonder  at 
the  beautiful  fai;e  turned  toward  him.  He 
saw  the  clark  eyes,  witli  their  sombre  depth, 
dark  in  anger  and  scorn,  and  the  luminous 
shimmer  of  the  jewels  tliat  shone  through  the 
black  veil  upon  her  haughty  head.  He  saw 
her,  and  his  heart  grew  chill  at  the  sight  of 
her  pale  beauty  in  the  mysterious  moonlight. 

"  It  might  be  my  sister's  ghost,"  he  thought, 
"coming  upon  me  in  this  quiet  place;  it  'a 
a'njost  dillicult  to  believe  as  it  's  tlesh  and 
blood." 

He  would  have  advanced,  perhaps,  ar.d  ad- 
dressed his  niece,  had  he  not  been  held  back 
by  tiie  words  which  she  was  speaking  as  she 
passed  him — words  that  jarred  painfully  upon 
his  heart,  telling,  as  they  did,  of  anger  and 
bitterness,  discord  and  misery. 

"  Yes,  hate  you,"  she  said,  in  a  clear  voice, 
which  seemed  to  vibrate  sharply  in  the  dusk 
—  "hate  yon,  hate  you,  hate  you!"  She  re- 
peated the  hard  phrase,  as  if  there  were  some 
pleasure  and  delight  iu  uttering  it,  which  in 
her  ungovernable  anger  she  could  not  deny 
hdrself.  "  What  other  words  do  you  expect 
from  me  ?"  she  crie<l  with  a  low,  mocking 
laugh,  which  had  a  tone  of  deeper  misery  and 
more  utter  hopelessness  than  any  outbreak  of 
womanly  weeping.  "  Would  yoH  have  mc 
love  you,  or  respect  you,  or  tcderate  you  V" 
Her  voice  ro.se  with  each  rapid  (jue.stion, 
merging  into  an  hysterical  sol),  but  never 
melting  into  tears.  "  Would  you  have  me 
tell  you  anything  else  than  what  I  tell  you  to- 
night? I  hate  and  abhor  you.  I  look  upon 
you  as  the  primary  cause  of  every  sorrow  I 
have  ever  known,  of  every  tear  I  have  ever 
shed,  of  every  humiliation  I  have  ever  en- 
dured—  every  sleepless  night,  every  weary 
day,  every  despairing  hour  I  have  ever  pa.ssed. 
More  than  this — yes,  a  thousand,  thousand 
times  more  —  I  look  upon  j/ou  as  the  first 
cause  of  my  father's  wretchedness.  Yes,  even 
before  my  own  mad  folly  in  believing  in  you, 
and  thinking  you  —  what? —  Claude  Mol- 
notte,  perhaps!  A  curse  upon  the  man  who 
wrote  the  play,  and  the  player  who  acted  in 
it,  if  it  helped  to  make  me  what  I  was  when  I 
met  you  !  I  say  again,  I  hate  you  ;  your  pres- 
ence |)oi9on9  my  home,  }<)ur  abhorred  shadow 
haunts  my  sleep —  no,  not  my  sleep,  for  how 
should  I  ever  sleep  knowing  that  you  are 
near  ?" 

Mr.  Conyers,  being  apparently  weary  of 
walking,  leaned  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree  to 
listen  to  the  end  of  this  outbreak,  looking  in- 
solent defiance  at  the  speaker.     But  Aurora's 


120 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


passion  bad  reached  that  point  in  which  all 
consciousness  of  external  things  passes  away 
in  the  complete  etroism  of  anger  and  hate,. 
She  did  not  see  his  superciliously  indifferent 
look  ;  her  dilated'  eyes  stared  straight  before 
her  into  the  dark  recess  from  which  Captain 
Prodder  watched  his  sister's  only  child.  Her 
restless  hands  rent  the  fragile  border  of  her 
shawl  in  the  strong  agony  of  her  passion. 
Have  you  ever  seen  this  kind  of  woman  in  a 
passion  ?  Impulsive,  nervous,  sensitive,  san- 
o-uine ;  with  such  a  one  passion  is  a  madnegs 
—  brief,  thank  Heaven  !  and  expending  itself 
in  sliarply  cruel  words,  and  convulsive  rend- 
ings  of  laces  and  ribbons,  or  coroners'  juries 
might  have  to  sit  even  oftener  than  they  do. 
It  is  fortunate  for  mankind  that  speaking  dag- 
gers is  often  quite  as  great  a  satisfaction  to  us 
as  using  them,  and  that  we  can  threaten  very 
cruel  things  without  meaning  to  carry  them 
out.  Like  the  little  children  who  say,  "  Won't 
I  just  tell  your  mother  ?"  and  the  terrible 
editors  who  write,  "  ^Von't  I  give  you  a  casti- 
gation  in  the  Market-Deeping  S/m-it  of  the 
Times,  or  the  Walton -on -the -Naze  A(he- 
nceum  /" 

"  If  you  are  going  to  give  us  much  more  of 
this  sort  of  thing,"  said  Mr.  Confers,  with  ag- 
gravating stolidity,  *'  perhaps  you  won't  object 
to  my  lighting  a  cigar  V" 

Aurora  took  no  notice  of  his  quiet  insolence  ; 
but  Captain  Prodder,  involuntarily  clenching 
his  fist,  bounded  a  step  forward  in  his  retreat, 
and  shook  the  leaves  of  the  underwood  about 
his  legs. 

"  What  's  that  ?"  exclaimed  the  trainer. 

"  My  dog,  perhaps,"  answered  Aurora ; 
"  he  's  about  here  with  me." 

"  Curse  the  purblind  cur,"  muttered  Mr. 
Conyers,  Avith  an  unlighted  cigar  in  his 
mouth.  He  struck  a  lucifer  match  against 
the  bark  of  a  tree,  and  the  vivid  sulphurous 
light  shone  full  upon  his  handsome  face. 

"  A  rascal,"  thought  Captain  Prodder;  "a 
good-looking,  heartless  scoundrel.  What  's 
this  between  my  niece  and  him  ?  He  is  n't 
her  husband,  surely,  for  he  don't  look  like  a 
gentleman.  But  if  he  a'n't  her  husband,  who 
is  he  ?" 

The  sailor  scratched  his  head  in  his  be- 
wilderment. His  senses  had  been  almost  stu- 
pefied by  Aurora's  passionate  talk,  and  he 
had  only  a  confused  feeling  that  there  was 
trouble  and  wretchedness  of  some  kind  or 
other  around  and  about  his  niece. 

"  If  I  thought  he  'd  done  anything  to  injure 
her,"  he  muttered,  "  I  'd  pound  him  into  such 
a  jelly  that  his  friends  would  never  know  his 
handsome  face  again  as  long  as  there  was  life 
in  his  carcass." 

Mr.  Conyers  threw  away  the  burning  match, 
and  puffed  at  his  newly-lighted  cigar.  He  did 
not  trouble  himself  to  take  it  from  his  lips  as  he 
addressed  Aurora,  but  spoke  between  his  teeth, 
and  smoked  in  the  pauses  of  his  discourse. 


—  calmed  yourself 
you  '11  be  so  good 
What  ilo  vou  want 


"  Perhaps,  if  you  've 
down  —  a  bit,"  he  said, 
as  —  to  come  to  business, 
me  to  do  ?" 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  answered 
Aurora. 

"  You  want  me  to  leave  this  place  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  ever." 

"  And  to  take  what  you  give;  me  —  and  be 
satisfied  ?"  * 

"  Yes." 

"  What  if  I  refuse  ?" 

She  turned  sharply  upon  him  as  he  asked 
this  question,  and  looked  at  him  for  a  few  mo- 
ments in  silence. 

"  What  if  I  refuse  ?"  he  repeated,  still 
smoking. 

"Look  to  yourself!"  she  cried,  between  her 
set  teeth  ;  "  that  's  all.     Look  to  yourself!" 

"  What !  you  'd  kill  me,  I  sup{)osr, '?" 

"  No,"  answered  Aurora  ;  "  but  I  'd  tell  all, 
and  get  the  release  which  I  ought  to  have 
sought  for  two  years  ago." 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  to  be  sui-e,"  said  Mr.  Conyers ; 
"  a  pleasant  thing  for  Mr.  Mellish,  and  our 
poor  papa,  and  a  nice  bit  of  gossip  for  the 
newspapers.  I  've  a  good  mind  to  put  you  to 
the  test,  and  see  if  you  've  pluck  enough  to 
do  it,  my  lady." 

She  stamped  her  foot  upon  the  turf,  and 
tore  the  lace  in  her  hands,  throwing  the  frag- 
ments away  from  her ;  but  she  did  not  answer 
him. 

"  You  'd  like  to  stab  me,  or  shoot  me,  or 
strangle  me,  as  I  stand  here,  would  n't  you, 
now  ?"  asked  the  trainer,  mockingly. 

"  Yes,"  cried  Aurora,  "  I  would  ! '  She  flung 
her  head  back  with  a  gesture  of  disdain  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Why  do  I  waste  my  time  in  talking  to 
you  ?"  she  said.  "  My  worst  words  can  inflict 
no  wound  upon  such  a  nature  as  yours.  My 
scorn  is  no  more  painful  to  you  than  it  would 
be  to  any  of  the  loathsome  creatures  that  creep 
about  the  margin  of  yonder  pool." 

The  trainer  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth, 
and  struck  the  ashes  away  with  his  little  fin- 
ger. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  contemptuous  laugh, 
"I  'm  not  very  thin-skinned,  and  I  'm  prtitty 
well  used  to  this  sort  of  thing  into  the  bargain. 
But  suppose,  as  I  remarked  just  now,  we  drop 
this  style  of  conversation,  and  come  to  busi- 
ness. VV'e  don't  seem  to  be  getting  on  very 
fast  this  way." 

At  this  juncture,  Captain  Prodder,  who,  in 
his  extreme  desire  to  strangle  his  niece's 
companion,  had  advanced  very  close  upon 
the  two  speakers,  knocked  off  his  hat  against 
the  lower  branches  of  the  tree  which  sheltered 
him. 

There  was  no  mistake  this  time  about  the 
rustling  of  the  leaves.  The  trainer  started, 
and  limped  toward  Captain  Proddcr's  hiding- 
place. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


121 


"  Tiiere  's  some  one  listening  to  us,"  he 
said.  "  I  'm  sure  of  it  this  time  —  that  fel- 
low Hargraves,  perhaps.  I  fancy  he  's  a 
sneak." 

Mr.  Coiiyers  supported  himself  against  the 
very  tree  Vjehind  which  the  sailor  stood,  and 
beat  among  the  undergrowth  with  his  stick, 
but  did  not  succeed  in  encountering  the  legs 
of  the  listener. 

"If  that  soft-headed  fool  is  playing  the  spy 
upon  me,"  ci'icd  the  trainer,  savagely,  "  he  'd 
better  not  let  me  catch  him,  for  I  '11  make  him 
remember  it  if  I  do." 

"  Don't  I  tell  you  that  my  dog  followed  me 
here  V"  exclaimed  Aurora,  contemptuously. 

A  low  rustling  of  the  grass  on  the  other  side 
of  the  aveniu>,  and  at  some  distance  from  the 
seaman's  place  of  concealment,  was  heard  as 
Mrs.  Mcllish  spoke. 

"  'J'littt  V  your  dog,  if  you  like,"  said  the 
trainer;  "  tlie  other  was  a  man.  Come  on  a 
little  way  farther,  and  let  's  make  a  finish  of 
this  business;  it  's  past  ten  o'clock." 

Ml'.  Conyers  was  right.  The  church  clock 
had  struck  ten  five  minutes  before,  but  the 
solemn  chimes  had  fallen  unheeded  upon  Au- 
rora's ear,  lost  amid  the  angry  voices  raging 
in  her  breast.  S!ie  started  as  she  looked 
around  her  at  tlie  summer  darkness  in  the 
woods,  and  tlie  flaming  yellow  moon,  which 
brooded  low  upon  the  earth,  and  slied  no 
light  upon  the  mysterious  pathways  and  the 
water-pools  in  the  wood. 

The  trainer  limped  away.  Aurora  walking 
by  his  side,  yet  holding  herself  as  far  aloof 
from  him  as  the  grassy  pathway  would  allow. 
They  were  out  of  hearing,  and  almost  out  of 
sight,  before  the  sea-captain  could  emerge 
from  a  state  of  utter  stupefaction  so  far  as  to 
be  able  to  look  at  the  business  in  its  right 
bearings. 

"  1  ouaht  to  ha'  knocked  him  down,"  he 
muttered  at  last;  "whether  ho  's  her  husband 
or  wheth(>r  he  is  n't.  I  ought  to  have  knock- 
ed him  down,  and  I  would  have  done  it  too," 
add<'d  the  captain,  resolutely,  "if  it  had  n't 
been  that  my  niece  seemed  to  have  a  good 
fiery  spirit  of  her  own,  and  to  be  able  to  fire 
a  jolly  good  broadside  in  the  way  of  hard 
words.  T  '11  find  my  skull-thatcher  if  T  can," 
said  Captain  Prodder.  groping  for  his  hat 
among  tlie  brambles  and  the  long  irrass,  "and 
then  I  '11  just  run  up  to  the  turnstile  and  tell 
my  mate  to  lay  at  anchor  a  bit  longer  with 
the  horse  and  shay.  He  "II  be  wonderin'  what 
1  'm  up  to:  but  T  won't  go  back  juet  yet:  I  'II 
keep  in  flic  way  of  my  niece  and  that  swab 
with  the  game  leg." 

The  captain  found  his  hat,  and  walked 
down  to  the  turnstile,  where  he  fotind  the 
young  man  from  the  "Ri'indeer"  fast  asleep, 
with  the  reins  loose  in  his  hand-;,  and  liis  head 
upon  his  knees.  The  horse,  witli  his  head  in 
an  empty  nose-bag,  seemed  as  fast  asleep  as 
the  driver. 


The  young  man  woke  at  the  sound  of  the 
turnstile  creaking  upon  its  axis,  and  the  step 
of  the  sailor  in  the  road. 

"  I  a'n't  goin'  to  get  aboard  just  yet,"  said 
Captain  Prodder;'  'I  '11  take  another  turn  in 
the  wood,  as  the  evenin'  's  so  pleasant.  I 
come  to  tell  yon  I  would  n't  kec])  you  much 
lousier,  for  I  thought  you  'd  think  I  was 
dead." 

"  I  did  a'most."  answered  the  charioteer, 
candidly.  "  My  word,  a'n't  you  been  a 
time !" 

"  I  met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish  in  the  wood," 
said  the  captain,  "  and  I  stopped  to  have  a  look 
at  'em.  She  's  a  bit  of  a  spitfire,  a'n't  she  ?" 
asked  Samuel,  with  allcctcil  carelessness. 

The  young  man  from  the  "  Reindeer"  shook 
his  head  dubiously. 

"  I  doant  know  about  that,"  he  said ;  "she  's 
a  rare  favorite  hereabouts,  with  poor  folks  and 
g(Mitry  too.  They  do  say  as  she  horsewhipped 
a  poor  fond  chap  as  they  'd  got  in  the  stables 
for  ill-u<in'  her  dog;  and  sarve  liim  right  too,** 
added  the  young  man,  decisively.  "  Them 
softies  is  alius  vicious."' 

Captain  Prodder  poiulered  rather  doubtful- 
ly upon  this  piece  of  intbrniation.  He  was 
not  particularly  elated  by  the  image  of  his 
sister's  child  laying  a  horsewhip  upon  the 
shoulders  of  her  half-  witted  servant.  This 
trilling  incident  <lid  n't  exactly  harmonize 
with  his  idea  of  the  beautiful  heiress,  playing 
upon  all  manner  of  instrmncnts,  and  speaking 
half  a  dozen  languages. 

'•  Yes,"  repeated  tlie  driver,  "  they  do  say 
as  she  gave  t' fondy  a  good  wlxipping;  and 
damme  if  I  don't  admire  her  for  it." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  answered  Captain  Prodder, 
thoughtfully.  "  Mr.  IMcllish  walks  lame, 
don't,  he  ?"    he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Lame!"  cried  the  driver;  "Lord  bless 
your  heart,  not  a  bit  of  it.  John  ZMellish  is  as 
fine  a  young  man  as  you  '11  meet  in  this  Rid- 
ing—  ay.  and  finer,  too.  I  ought  to  know. 
I  've  seen  him  walk  into  our  house  often 
enough  in  the  race  week." 

The  captain's  heart  sank  strangely  at  this 
information.  The  man  with  whom  h<'  had 
heani  his  niece  quarrelling  was  not  her  hus- 
band, then.  Tht!  squabble  had  seemed  natu- 
ral enough  to  the  uninitiated  sailor  while  he 
looked  at  it  in  a  matrimonial  light,  but,  seen 
from  another  aspect,  it  struck  sudden  terror 
to  his  sturdy  heart,  and  l)lan'Ii'd  the  ruddy 
hues  in  his  brown  face.  "  Who  was  he, 
then?"  he  thought;  "  who  was  it  as  my  niece 
I  was  talkin"  to — aft^er  dark  —  alone — a  mile  off 
I  her  nwn  home,  eh  V" 

'  liefore  he  could  seek  for  a  solution  to  the 
]  unuttered  question  whicli  agitated  and  aiarm- 
I  ed  him,  the  report  of  a  pistol  rang  .xharply 
!  thvntigh  the  wood,  and  I'ound  an  echo  under  a 
I  distant  hill. 

Tiie  horse  pricked  up  his  cars,  and  jibbed  a 
I  few  paces;  the  driver  gave  a  low  whistle. 


122 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


"  I  thought  so,"  he  said.  "  Poachers !  This 
side  of  tlie  wood  's  (diock  full  of  game ;  and, 
though  Squire  Mcllish  is  alius  threateiiin'  to 
prosecute  'em,  folks  know  pretty  well  as  he  '11 
never  do  it." 

The  broad-shouldered,  strong-limbed  sailor 
leaned  against  the  turnstile,  trembling  in 
every  limb. 

What  was  that  which  his  niece  had  said  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before,  when  the  man  had 
asked  her  whether  she  would  like  to  shoot 
him  ? 

"  Leave  your  horse,"  he  said,  in  a  gasping 
voice ;  "  tie  him  to  the  stile,  and  come  Avith 
me.  If — if — it  's  poachers,  we  'II — we  '11  catch 
'em." 

The  young  man  looped  the  reins  across  the 
turnstile.  He  had  no  vei'v  great  terror  of  any 
inclination  for  ilight  latent  in  the  gray  horrse 
from  the  "  Reindeer."  The  two  men  ran  into 
the  wood,  the  captain  running  in  the  direction 
in  which  his  sharp  ears  told  him  the  shot  had 
been  fired. 

The  moon  was  slowly  rising  in  the  tranquil 
heavt'ns,  but  there  was  very  little  light  yet  in 
the  wood. 

The  captain  stopped  near  a  rustic  summer- 
house  falling  into  decay,  and  half  buried  amid 
the  tangled  foliage  tliat  clustered  about  the 
mouldering  thatch  and  the  dilapidated  wood- 
work. 

"  It  was  hereabout  the  shot  was  fired,"  mut- 
tered the  captain  ;  "  about  a  hundred  yards 
due  nor'ard  of  the  stile.  I  could  take  my 
oath  as  it  were  n't  far  from  this  spot  I  'm 
Stan  din'  on." 

He  looked  about  him  in  the  dim  light.  He 
could  see  no  one ;  but  an  army  might  have 
hidden  among  the  trees  that  encircled  the 
open  patch  of  turf  on  which  the  summer-house 
had  been  built.  He  listened  with  his  hat  oif, 
and  his  big  hand  pressed  tightly  on  his  heart, 
as  if  to  still  its  tumultuous  beating;  he  listen- 
ed as  eagerly  as  he  had  often  listened,  far  out 
on  a  glassy  sea,  for  the  first  faint  breath  of  a 
rising  wind;  but  he  could  hear  nothing  except 
the  occasional  croaking  of  the  frogs  in  the 
pond  near  the  summer-house. 

"  I  could  liave  sworn  it  was  about  here  the 
shot  was  fired,"  he  repeated.  "  God  grant  as 
it  fi'as  poachers,  after  all ;  but  it  's  given  me 
a  turn  that 's  made  nie  feel  like  some  Cockney 
lubber  aboard  a  steamer  betwixt  Bristol  and 
Cork.  Lord,  what  a  blessed  old  fool  I  am  !" 
muttered  the  captain,  after  walking  slowly 
round  the  sunnner-house  to  convince  himself 
that  there  was  no  one  hidden  in  it.  "  One  'ud 
think  I  'd  never  heerd  the  sound  of  a  ha'- 
p'orth of  powder  before  to-nijjht." 

He  put  on  his  hat,  and  walked  a  few  paces 
forward,  still  looking  about  cautiously,  and 
still  listening,  but  much  easier  in  his  mind 
than  when  first  he  had  re-entered  the  wood. 

He  stooped  suddenly,  arrested  by  a  .sound 
which  has  of  itself,  without  any  reference  to 


its  power  of  association,  a  mysterious  anvl  chill- 
ing influence  upon  the  human  heart.  This 
sound  was  the  howling  of  a  doij  —  the  pro- 
longed, monotonous  howling  of  a  dog.  A 
cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  the  sailor's  fore- 
head. That  sound,  always  one  of  terror  to  his 
superstitious  nature,  was  doubly  terrible  to- 
night. 

"  It  means  death,"  he  muttered,  with  a 
groan.  "  No  dog  ever  howled  like  that  ex- 
cept for  death." 

He  turned  back  and  looked  about  him. 
The  moonlight  glinnnered  faintly  upon  the 
broad  patch  of  stagnant  water  near  the  sum- 
mer-house, and  upon  its  brink  the  captain 
saw  two  figures,  black  against  the  summer 
atmosphere  —  a  prostrate  figure,  lying  close 
to  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  a  large  dog, 
with  his  head  uplifted  to  the  sky,  howling 
piteously. 

It  was  the  bounden  duty  of  poor  John  Mel- 
lish,  in  his  capacity  of  host,  to  sit  at  the  head 
of  his  table,  pass  the  claret-jug,  and  listen  to 
Colonel  Maddison's  stories  of  the  pig-sticking 
and  the  tiger-hunting  as  long  as  the  Indian 
officer  chose  to  talk  for  the  amusement  of  his 
friend  and  his  son-in-law.  It  was  perhaps 
lucky  that  patient  I\Ir.  Lofthouse  was  well  up 
in  all  the  stories,  and  knew  exactly  which  de- 
partments of  each  narrative  were  to  be  laugh- 
ed at,  and  which  were  to  be  listened  to  with 
silent  and  awe-stricken  attention  ;  for  John 
Mellish  made  a  very  bad  audience  upon  this 
occasion.  He  pushed  the  filberts  toward  the 
colonel  at  the  very  moment  when  "the  tigress 
was  crouching  for  a  sin-ing,  upon  the  rising 
ground  exactly  above  us,  sir,  and  when,  by 
Jove,  Charley  Maddison  i'elt  himself  at  pretty 
close  quarters  with  the  enemy,  sir,  and  never 
thought  to  stretch  his  legs  under  this  mahoga- 
ny, or  any  other  man's,  sir ;"  and  he  spoiled 
the  officer's  best  joke  by  asking  him  for  the 
claret  in  the  middle  of  it. 

The  tigers  and  the  pigs  were  confusion  and 
weariness  of  spirit  to  Mr.  Mellish.  He  was 
yearning  for  the  moment  when,  with  any 
show  of  decency,  he  might  make  for  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  find  out  what  Aurora  was  do- 
ing in  the  still  summer  twilight.  When  the 
door  was  opened  and  fresh  wine  brought  in, 
he  heard  the  rattling  of  the  keys  under  Mrs. 
Lofthouse  s  manipulation,  and  rejoiced  to 
think  that  his  wife  was  seated  quietly,  per- 
haps, listening  to  those  sonatas  in  C  flat  which 
the  rector's  wife  delighted  to  interpret. 

The  lamps  wer«  brought  in  before  Colonel 
Maddison's  stories  were  finished ;  and  when 
John's  butler  came  to  ask  if  the  gentlemen 
would  like  coffee,  the  worthy  Indian  officer 
said  "  Yes,  by  all  means,  and  a  cheroot  jvith 
it.  No  smoking  in  the  drawing-room,  eh, 
Mellish  ?  Petticoat  government  and  window- 
curtains,  I  dare  say.  Clara  does  n't  like  my 
smoke  at  the  Rectory,  and  poor  Lofthouse 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


123 


wi'ites  his  sermons  in  the  summer-house ;  for 
he  can't  write  witliout  a  weed,  you  know,  and 
a  volume  of  Tillotj^on,  or  some  of  those  fefiows, 
to  pn'fj  from,  eh,  George  '?"  said  the-  facetious 
gentleman,  digtring  his  son-in-law  in  the  rihs 
with  his  fat  old  fing<;rs,  and  knocking  over  two 
or  three  wine-glasses  in  his  ])onderous  jocosity. 
How  dreary  it  all  seemed  to  Jolin  Mellish  to- 
night-^  He  wondered  how  peoj)le  felt  who 
had  no  social  mystery  brooding  upon  their 
hearth ;  no  domestic  skeleton  cowering  in 
their  homely  cupboard.  He  looked  at  the 
rector's  placid  face  with  a  pang  of  envy. 
There  was  no  secret  kept  from  him.  There 
was  no  perpetual  struggle  rending  his  heart; 
no  dreadful  doubts  and  fears  that  would  not 
be  quite  lulled  to  rest;  no  vague  terror,  inces- 
sant and  unreasoning;  no  mute  argument 
for  ever  going  forward,  with  ])laintifr's  coun- 
sel and  defendant's  counsel  continually  plead- 
ing the  same  cause,  and  arriving  at  the  same 
result.  Heaven  take  pity  upon  those  who 
have  to  suffer  such  silent  misery,  such  secTct 
despair!  AVe  look  at  our  ueighbor.s'  smiling 
faces,  and  say,  in  bitterness  of  spirit,  that  A  is 
a  lucky  fellow,  and  that  B  can't  be  as  much 
in  debt  as  his  friends  say  he  is ;  that  C  and 
his  pretty  wife  are  the  happiest  couple  wc 
know;  and  to-morrow  W  is  in  the  (Jazette, 
and  C  is  weeping  over  a  dishonored  home, 
and  a  group  of  motherless  children,  who  won- 
der what  mamma  has  done  that  papa  should 
be  so  sorry.  The  battles  are  very  quiet,  but 
they  are  for  ever  being  fought.  We  keej)  tlu^ 
tbx  hidden  under  our  cloak,  but  the  teetii  of 
the  animal  are  none  the  less  sharp,  nor  the 
pain  less  terrible  to  bear:  a  little  more  terri- 
ble, perhaps,  for  being  endured  silently.  John 
Mellisli  gave  a  long  sigh  of  relief  when  the 
Indian  oihcer  iinishcd  his  third  cheroot,  and 
pronounced  himself  ready  to  join  tlie  ladies. 
The  lamps  in  the  drawing-room  were  lighted, 
and  the  curtains  drawn  before  the  open  win- 
dows, when  the  three  gentlemen  entered. 
Mrs.  Lofthouse  was  asleep  upon  one  of  the 
gofas,  with  a  Book  of  Beauty  lying  open  at 
her  feet,  and  Mrs.  Powell,  pale  and  sleeples.s — 
sleepless  as  trouble  and  sorrow,  as  jealousy 
and  hate,  as  anything  that  is  ravenous  and 
"anapi)easable  —  sat  at  her  embroidery,  work- 
in<r  laborious  monstrosities  upon  delicate  cam- 
bnc- muslin. 

The  colonel  dropped  heavily  into  a  lu.Kuri- 
ous  easy-chair,  and  (juietly  abandoned  himself 
to  repo.-^e.  Mr.  Lofthouse  awoke  iiis  wife,  and 
<'onsuite<l  her  about  the  propriety  of  ordering 
the  carriage.  John  Mellish  looked  eagerly 
round  the  room.  To  him  it  was  empty.  'J'he 
rector  and  his  wife,  the  Indian  officer  and  the 
ensign's  widow,  were  only  so  uumy  "phospho- 
rescent spcctralities,'  "phantasm  captains;" 
in  short,  they  were  not  Aurora. 

"Where  's  Lolly?"  he  asked  looking  from 
Mrs.  Lofihou.-'e  to  Mrs.  Powell;  'where  's  my 
wife?" 


"  I  really  do  not  know,"  answered  Mrs. 
Powell,  with  icy  deliberation.  "I  ha.ve  not 
been  watching  Mrs.  Mellish." 

The  poisoned  darts  glanced  away  from 
John's  preoccupied  breast.  There  was  no 
room  in  his  wounded  heart  for  such  a  petty 
sting  as  this. 

"  Where  'a  my  wife  '?"  he  cried,  passionate- 
ly; "you  nuisl  know  where  she  is.  She  "s 
not  here.  Is  she  up  stairs  ?  Is  she  out  of 
doors  V" 

"  To  the  best  of  my  belief,"  replied  the  en- 
sign's widow,  with  more  than  usual  precision, 
"Mrs.  Mellish  is  in  some  jjart  of  the  grounds; 
she  has  been  out  of  doors  ever  since  we  lefl 
thi'  dining-room." 

The  French  clock  upon  the  mantle-piece 
chimed  the  three-quarters  after  ten  as  she  fin- 
islied  speaking,  as  if  to  give  emphasis  to  her 
words,  ami  to  remind  Mr.  jMellish  how  long  his 
wife  had  been  absent.  He  bit  his  lip  fiercely, 
and  strode  toward  one  of  the  windows.  He 
was  going  to  look  for  his  wife;  but  he  stopped 
as  he  flung  aside  the  window-curtain,  arrested 
by  Mrs.  Powelfs  uplifted  hand. 

"  Hark  !"  she  said,  "  there  is  something  the 
matter,  I  fear.  Did  you  hear  that  violent 
ringing  at  the  hall-door  ?" 

Mr.  Mellish  let  fall  the  curtain,  and  re- 
entered the  room. 

"  It  's  Aurora,  no  doubt,"  he  said ;  "  they 
've  shut  her  out  again,  I  suppose.  I  beg,  Mrs. 
Powell,  that  you  will  prevent  this  in  future. 
Really,  ma'am,  it  Is  hard  that  my  wife  should 
be  .shut  out  of  her  own  house." 

He  might  have  said  much  more,  but  he 
stopped,  pale  and  breathless,  at  the  sound  of 
a  hubbub  in  the  hall,  and  rushed  to  the  room- 
door.  He  opened  it  and  looked  out,  with 
Mrs.  Powell  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lofthouse 
crowding  behind  him  and  looking  over  his 
shoulder. 

Haifa  dozen  servants  were  clustered  round 
a  roughly-dressed,  seafaring-looking  man,  who, 
with  his  hat  off  and  his  disordered  hair  fall- 
ing about  his  white  face,  was  telling  in  broken' 
sentences,  scarcely  intelligible  for  the  speak- 
er's agitation,  that  a  murder  had  been  done  in 
the  wood. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

TIIF.    DKKI)    THAT    UAD    BKKX    nONK    IX    THF. 
WOOD. 

The  bareheaded  .seafaring  man  who  stood 
in  the  centre  of  the  hall  wa.s  Captain  Samuel 
Prodder.  The  scared  faces  of  the  servants 
<;athered  round  him  told  more  plainly  than 
his  words,  which  came  hoarsely  from  his 
parched  white  lips,  the  nature  of  the  tidings 
that  he  brought. 

John  Mellish  .strode  across  the  hall  with  an 
awful  calmness  on  his  white  face,  and,  parting 
the  hustled  group  of  servants  with  his  strong 


124 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


arms  as  a  mighty  wind  rends  asunder  the 
storm-beaten  waters,  he  placed  himself  face 
to  face  with  Captain  Prodder. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  he  asked,  sternly ;  "  and 
what  has  brought  you  here  ?" 

The  Indian  officer  had  been  aroused  by  the 
clamor,  and  had  emerged,  red  and  bristling 
with  self-importance,  to  take  his  part  in  the 
business  in  hand. 

There  are  some  pies  in  the  making  of 
which  everybody  yearns  to  have  a  finger.  It 
is  a  great  privilege,  after  some  social  convul- 
sion has  taken  place,  to  be  able  to  say,  "  I 
was  there  at  the  time  the  scene  occurred, 
sir;"  or,  "I  was  standing  as  close  to  him 
when  the  blow  was  struck,  ma'am,  as  I  am  to 
you  at  this  moment."  People  are  apt  to  take 
pride  out  of  strange  things.  An  elderly  gen- 
tleman at  Doncaster,  showing  me  his  com- 
fortablj-  furnished  apartments,  informed  me, 
with  evident  satisfaction,  that  Mr.  William 
Palmer  had  lodged  in  those  very  rooms. 

Colonel  Maddison  pushed  aside  his<laugh- 
ter  and  her  husband,  and  struggled  out  into 
the  hall. 

"  Come,  my  man,"  he  said,  echoing  John's 
interrogatory,  "let  us  hear  what  has  brought 
you  here  at  such  a  remarkably  unseasonable 
hour." 

The  sailor  gave  no  direct  answer  to  the 
question.  He  pointed  with  his  thumb  across 
his  shoulder  toward  that  dismal  spot  in  the 
lonely  wood,  which  was  as  present  to  his 
menti!  vision  now  as  it  had  been  to  his  bodily 
eyes  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before. 

"  A  man  !"  he  gasped  ;  "  a  man — lyin'  close 
agen'  the  water's  edge  —  shot  through  the 
heart." 

"  Dead  ?"  asked  some  one,  in  an  awful 
tone.  The  voices  and  the  (juestions  came 
from  whom  they  would  in  the  awe-stricken 
terror  of  those  first  moments  of  overwhelming 
horror  and  surprise.  No  one  knew  who  s])oke 
except  the  speakers:  perhaps  even  they  were 
scarcely  aware  tliat  they  had  spoken. 

"  Dead  ?"  asked  one  of  those  eager  list- 
eners. 

"  Stone  dead." 

"A  man  —  shot  dead  in  the  wood  !"  cried 
John  Melh'sh  ;  "  what  man  V" 

*'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  grave 
old  butler,  laying  his  hand  gently  upon  his 
master's  slioulder,  "  I  think,  from  what  this 
person  says,  that  the  man  who  has  been  shot 
is — the  ncAv  trainer,  Mr. — Mr. — " 

"  Conyers  I"  exclaimed  John.  "  Conyers  ! 
who — wlio  should  shoot  him  ?"  The  question 
was  asked  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  It  was  impos- 
sible for  the  speaker's  face  to  grow  whiter 
than  it  had  been  from  the  moment  in  which 
he  had  opened  the  drawing-room-door,  and 
looked  out  into  the  hall;  but  some  terrible 
change  not  to  be  translated  into  words  came 
over  it  at  the  mention  of  the  trainer's  name. 

He  stood  motionless  and  silent,  pushing  his 


j  hair   from   his   forehead,   and   staring  wildly 
i  about  him. 

The  grave  butler  laid  his  warning  hand  for 
I  a  second  time  upon  his  master's  shoulder. 
i  "  Sir,  Jlr.  Mellish,"  he  said,  eager  to  arouse 
[  the  young  man  from  the  dull,  stupid  quiet 
into-  which  he  had  fallen,  "  excuse  me,  sir, 
I  but  if  my  mistress  should  come  in  sudilenly, 
!  and  hear  of  this,  she  might  be  upset,  perhaps. 
I  Would  n't  it  be  better  to — " 
I  "  Yes  !  yes  I"  cried  John  Mellish,  lifting.  His 
j  head  suddenly,  as  if  aroused  into  immediate 
I  action  by  the  mere  suggestion  of  his  wife's 
1  name — "  yes !  Clear  out  of  the  hall,  every 
j  one  of  you,"  he  said,  addressing  the  eager 
I  group  of  pale-faced  servants.  "  And  you, 
j  sir,"  he  added,  to  Captain  Prodder,  "  come 
j  with  me." 

I      He  walked    toward  the    dining-room-door. 
I  The  sailor  followed  him,  still  bareheaded,  still 
with  a  semi-bewildered  expression  in  his  dusky 
1  face. 

I  "  It  a'n't  the  first  time  I  've  seen  a  man 
shot,"  he  thought,  "  but  it 's  the  first  time  I  've 
felt  like  this." 

Before  Mr,  Mellish  could  reach  the  dining- 
room,  before  the  servants  could  disperse  and 
return  to  their  proper  quarters,  one  of  the 
half-glass  doors,  which  had  been  left  ajar, 
was  pushed  open  by  the  light  touch  of  a 
woman's  hand,  and  Aurora  Mellish  entered 
the  hall. 

"  Ah,  ha  !"  thought  the  ensign's  widow,  who 
looked  on  at  the  scene  snugly  sheltered  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lofthouse,  "  my  lady  is  caught  a 
second  time  in  her  evening  rambles.  \Vhat 
will  he  say  to  her  goings  on  to-night,  I 
wonder  ?" 

Aurora's  manner  presented  a  singular  con- 
trast to  the  terror  and  agitation  of  the  as- 
sembly in  the  hall.  A  vivid  crimson  flush 
glowed  in  her  cheeks  and  lit  up  her  shining 
eyes.  She  carried  her  head  high,  in  that 
queenly  defiance  which  was  her  peculiar 
grace.  Slie  walked  with  a  light  step ;  she 
moved  with  easy,  careless  gestures.  It 
seemed  as  if  some  burden  which  she  had 
long  carried  had  been  suddenly  removed 
from  her.  But  at  sight  of  the  crowd  in 
the  hall  she  drew  back  with  a  look  of  alarm. 
"What  has  happened,  John?"  she  cried; 
"  what  is  wrong  V" 

He  lifted  his  hand  with  a  warning  gest- 
ure—  a  gesture  that  plainly  said,  Whatever 
trouble  or  sorrow  there  may  be,  let  her  be 
spared  the  knowledge  of  it —  let  her  be  shel- 
tered from  the  pain. 

"  Yes,  my  darling,"  he  answered,  quietly, 
taking  her  hand  and  leading  her  into  the 
drawing-room,  "  there  is  something  wrong. 
An  accident  has  happened  —  in  the  wood 
yonder ;  but  it  concerns  no  one  whom  you 
care  for.  Go,  dear ;  I  will  tell  you  all  by  and 
by.  Mrs.  Lofthouse,  you  will  take  care  of 
mv  wife.     Lofthouse,  come  with  me.     Allow 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


125 


me  to  shut  the  door,  Mrs.  Powell,  if  you  i  guardian  are  pi*otty  sure  to  brins  down  the 
please,"  he  added  to  the  ensign's  widow,  who  approving;  thunder  of  the  eighteen -penny 
did  not  seem  inclined  to  leave  her  post  upon  gallery  ;  but  I  doubt  if  the  noisy  energy  of 
the  threshold  of  the  drawing-room.  "  Any  stage-grief  is  true  to  nature,  however  wise  in 
curiosity  which  you  may  have  aI)out  the  j  art.  I  'm  afraid  that  an  actor  who  would  play 
business  shall  be  satisfied  in  due  time.  For  ,  Claude  Melnottc  with  a  pre-Raphaelite  fidel- 
the  present,  you  will  oblige  me  by  remaining  j  ity  to  nature  would  be  an  insutferable  bore, 
with  my  wife  and  Mrs.  Lofthouse."  and  utterly  inaudible  beyond  the  third  row  in 

He  paused,  with  his  hand  upon  the  draw-  i  the  pit.  The  artist  must  draw  his  own  line 
ing-room-door,  and  looked  at  Aurora.  j  between    nature  and    art,  and  map  out  the 

She  was  standing  with  her  shawl  upon  her  j  extent  of  his  own  territory.  If  he  finds  that 
arm,  watching  her  hu.sband;  and  she  ad-  cream -colored  marble  is  more  artistically 
vanced  enncrly  to  him  as  she  met  his  glance.  |  beautiful  than  a  rigid  pres(;ntmcnt  of  actual 


"  John,"  she  exclaimed,  "  tor  mercy's  sake, 
tell  me  the  truth  !      I17/o/  is  this  accident '?" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  gazing  at  her 
I'agcr  face  —  that  face,  whose  exquisite  mo- 
bility ex[)rcssed  every  thought ;  then,  looking 
at  licr  with  a  strange  solemnity,  ho  said 
gravely,  "  You  were  in  the  wood  just  now, 
Aurora  V" 

"  I  was,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  have  only  just 


fiesh  and  blood,  let  him  stain  his  marble  of 
that  delicate  hue  until  the  end  of  time.  If 
he  can  represent  five  acts  of  agony  and 
despair  without  once  turning  his  back  to  his 
audience  or  sitting  down,  let  him  do  it.  If  htt 
is  conscientiously  true  to  his  art,  let  him 
choose  for  himself  how  true  ho  shall  be  to 
nature. 

John  Mellish    took   his  wife's  hand  in  his 


left  the  grounds.     A  man  passeil  me,  running  ,  own,  and  grasped  it  with  a  convulsive  pressure 
violently,  about  a  quarter  of  an  hoifr  ago.     I  |  that  almost  crushed  the  delicate  fingers, 
thought  he  was  a  poacher.    Was  it  to  him  the  I      "  Stay  here,  my  dear,  till  I  come  back  to 
accident  hapj)ened  ?"  I  you,"  he  said.     "  Now,  Loftiiouse." 

"No.     There  was  a  shot  fired  in  the  wood  :      Mr.  Lofthouse  followed  his  friend  into  the 
some  time  since.     Did  you  hear  it?"  i  hall,  where  Colonel  Maddison  had  been  mak- 

"  I  did,"  replied   Mrs.   Mellish,   looking  at  I  ing  the  best  use  of  his  time  by  questioning 
him    with    sudden    terror   and    surprise.     "  I  j  the  merchant-captain. 

knew  there  were  often  poachers  about  near  |  "  Come,  gentlemen,'  said  John,  leading  the 
the  road,  and  I  was  not  alarmed  by  it.  Was  i  way  to  the  dining-room;  "come,  colonel,  and 
there  anything  wrong  in  that  shot?  Was  j  you  too,  Lolthouse  ;  and  you,  sir,"' he  added, 
;iny  one  hurt?"  1  to  the  sailor,  "  step  this  way." 

Her  eyes  were  fi.xed  upon  his  face,  dilated  i      The  debris  of  the  dessert  still  covered  the 


with  that  look  of  womlering  terror. 

"Yes;  a — a  man  was  hurt." 

Aurora  looked  at  him  in  silence — looked  at 
him  with  a  stony  face,  whose  only  expression 
was  an  utter  bewilderment.  Every  other  feel- 
ing seemed  blotted  away  in  that  one  sense  of 
wonder. 

John  Mellish  led  her  to  a  chair  near  Mrs. 


tabic,  but  the  men  did  not  advance  far  into 
the  room.  John  stood  aside  as  the  others 
went  in,  and,  entering  the  last,  closed  the 
door  behind  him,  and  stood  with  his  back 
against  it. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  turning  sharply  upon  Sam- 
uel Prodder,  "  what  is  this  business  ?' 

"  I  'm  afraid  it 's  sooicide — or — or  murder," 


Lol\house,  who  had   been  seated,  with  Mrs.  j  answeretl  tiie  sailor,  gravely.    "  I 've  told  this 
Powell,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  close  to  j  good  gentleman  all  about  it." 
the  piano,  and  too  far  from  the  door  to  over-  !      This  good  gentleman  was  Colonel  Maddi.son, 
hear  the  conversation  which  hrfd  just  taken  !  who  .seemed  delighted  to  plunge  into  the  con- 
place  between  John  and  his  wife,     i'eople  do  j  versation. 

not  talk  very  loudly  in  moments  of  intense  j  "  Yes,  my  dear  Mellish,"  he  said,  eagerly, 
agitation.  They  are  liable  to  be  deprived  oJ  j  "our  friend,  who  describes  himself  as  a  sailor, 
some  portion  of  their  vocal  power  in  the  |  and  who  had  come  down  to  see  Mrs.  Melli.sh, 
fearful  crisis  of  terror  and  despair.  A  numb-  |  whose  mother  he  knew  when  he  was  a  boy, 
ness  seizes  the  organ  of  .speech  ;  a  partial  j  has  told  me  all  about  this  shocking  atiair.  Of 
paralysis  di.sables  the  ready  tongue ;  the  |  course  the  body  nmst  be  removed  immedi- 
Irembling  li]is  refuse  to  do  their  duty.  The  ately,  alid  the  sooner  your  servants  go  out 
soft  pedal  of  the  human  instrument  is  down,  with  lanterns  for  that  purpose  the  better. 
»i\d  the  tones  are  feeble  and  mulHed,  wan-  Decision,  my  ilear  Mellish,  dcci.sion  and  prompt 
dcring  into  weak  minor  shrillness,  or  sinking  |  action  are  imli.ipensabie  in  these  sad  catas- 
to  husky  basses,  beyond  the  ordinary  compass  |  trophes."' 
of  the  speaker's   voice.     The  stentorian   ae-        "  The  body  removed  !"  repeated  John  Mel- 


cents  in  which  Claude  Melnott^j  bids  adieu  to 
Mademoiselle  Deschappelle  mingle  very  efl'ec- 
tivcly  with  the  brazen  clamor  of  the.  Mar- 
seillaise Ilvmn ;  the  sonorous  tones  in  which 


liah  ;  "  the  man  is  dead,  then  ?" 

"Quite  dead,"  answered  the  sailor;  "he 
was  dead  when  I  found  him,  though  it  was  n't 
above  seven  minutes  alter  the  shot  was  fired. 


Mistress   Julia   appeals    to    her    Huncbbaek  ■  1  left  a  man  with  him — a  young  man  as  drove 


126 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


mc  from  Doncaster — and  a  dog— some  bigdoj; 
that  watched  beside  him,  howling  awful,  and 
would  n't  leave  him." 

"  Did  you — see— the  man's  face  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  a  stranger  here,"  said  John  Hel- 
lish ;  *'  it  is  useless,  therefore,  to  ask  you  if  you 
know  who  the  man  is." 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  the  sailor,  "  I  did  n't 
know  him;  but  the  young  man  from  the  Rein- 
deer— " 

"  He  recognized  him  ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  said  he  'd  seen  the  man  in  Don- 
caster  only  the  night  before ;  and  that  he  was 
your — trainer,  I  think  he  called  him." 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  A  lame  chap." 

"  Come,  gentlemen,"  said  J,ohn,  turning  to 
his  friends,  "  what  are  we  to  do  V" 

"  Send  the  servants  into  the  wood,"  replied 
Colonel  Maddison,  "  and  have  the  body  car- 
ried— " 

"  Not  here,"  cried  John  MellLsh,  interrupt- 
ing him,  "  not  here;  it  would  kill  my  wife." 

'''  Where  did  the  man  live  ?"  asked  the 
colonel. 

*'  In  the  north  lodge.  A  cottage  against 
the  northern  gates,  which  are  never  used 
now." 

"  Then  let  the  body  be  taken  there,"  an- 
SAvered  the  Indian  soldier;  "  let  one  of  your 
people  run  for  the  parish  constable  ;  and  you 
'd  better  send  for  the  nearest  surgeon  imme- 
diately, though,  from  what  our  friend  here 
says,  a  hundred  of  'em  could  n't  do  any  good. 
It  's  an  awful  business.  Some  jioaching  fray, 
I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  answered  John,  quickly,  "  no 
doubt." 

"  Was  the  man  disliked  in  the  neighbor- 
hood V"  asked  Colonel  Maddison ;  "  had  he 
made  himself  in  imy  manner  obno.xiousV" 

"  I  should  scarcely  think  it  likely.  He  had 
only  been  with  me  about  a  week." 

The  servants,  who  had  dispersed  at  John's 
command,  had  not  gone  very  far.  They  had 
lingered  in  corridors  and  loljbies,  ready  at  a 
moment's  notice  to  rusli  out  into  the  hall 
again,  and  act  their  minor  parts  in  the  trage- 
dy. They  preferred  doing  anything  to  re- 
turning quietly  to  their  own  quarters. 

They  came  out  eagerly  at  Mr.  Mellish's 
summons.  He  gave  his  orders  briefly,  select- 
ing two  of  the  men,  and  sending  tlie  others 
about  their  business. 

"  Bring  a  couple  of  lanterns,"  he  said ; 
"  and  follow  us  across  the  Park  toward  the 
pond  in  the  wood." 

Colonel  Maddison,  Mr.  Loftliouse,  Captain 
Prodder,  and  John  Mellish  left  the  house  to- 
gether. The  moon,  still  slowly  risiu'if  in  the 
broad,  cloudless  heavens,  silvered  the  quiet 
lawn,  and  shimmered  upon  the  tree-tops  in  the 
distance.  The  three  gentlemen  walked  at  a 
rapid  pace,  led  by  Samuel  Prodder,  who  kept 


a  little  way  in  advance,  and  followed  by  { 
couple  of  grooms,  who  carried  darkened 
sta])le-lan  terns. 

As  they  entered  the  wood,  they  stopped  in^ 
voluntarily,  arrested  by  that  solemn  sound 
which  had  first  drawn  the  sailor's  attention  to' 
the  dreadful  deed  that  had  been  done — the 
howling  of  the  dog.  it  sounded  in  the  dis- 
tance like  a  low,  feeble  wail— a  long,  monoto- 
nous death-cry. 

They  followed  that  dismal  indication  of  the 
spot  to  which  they  were  to  go.  They  made 
their  way  through  the  shadowy  avenue,  and 
emerged  upon  the  silvery  patch  of  turf  and 
fern  where  the  rotting  summer-house  stood  in 
its  solitary  decay.  The  two  figures  —  the 
prostrate  figure  on  the  brink  of  the  water, 
and  the  figure  of  the  dog  with  uplifted  head — 
still  remained  exactly  as  the  sailor  had  left 
them  three-quarters  of  an  hour  before.  The 
young  man  from  the  Reindeer  stood  aloof 
from  these  two  figures,  and  advanced  to  meet 
the  new-comers  as  they  drew  near. 

Colonel  Maddison  took  a  lantern  from  one 
of  the  men,  and  ran  forwa.rd  to  the  water's 
edge.  The  dog  rose  as  he  approached,  and 
walked  slowly  round  the  prostrate  form,  snif- 
fling at  it,  and  whining  piteously.  John 
Mellish  called  the  animal  away. 

"  This  man  was  in  a  sitting  posture  when 
he  was  shot,"  said  Colonel  Maddison,  decisive- 
ly.    "  He  was  sitting  upon  tiiis  bench  here." 

He  pointed  to  a  dilapidated  rustic  seat  close 
to  the  margin  of  the  stagnant  water. 

"  He  Avas  sitting  upon  this  bench,"  repeated 
the  colonel,  "  for  he  's  fallen  close  against  it, 
as  you  see.  Unless  I  'm  very  much  mistaken, 
he  was  shot  from  behind." 

'•You  don't  tliink  he  shot  himself,  then?" 
asked  John  Mellish. 

"  Shot  himself!"  cried  the  colonel ;  "  not  a 
bit  of  it.  But  we  "11  soon  settle  that.  If  he 
shot  himself,  the  pistol  must  be  close  against 
him.  Here,  bring  a  loose  plank  from  that 
snmmer-hou.se,  and  lay  the  body  upon  it," 
added  the  Indian  officer,  speaking  to  the  ser- 
vants. 

Captain  Prodder  and  the  two  grooms  se- 
lected the  broadest  plank  they  coidd  find.  It 
was  moss-grown  and  rotten,  and  straggling 
wreaths  of  wild  clematis  were  entwined  about 
it;  but  it  served  the  purpose  for  which  it  was 
wanted.  They  laid  it  upon  the  grass,  and 
lifted  the  body  of  James  Conyers  on  to  it, 
with  his  handsome  face — ghastly  and  horrible 
in  the  fixed  agony  of  sudden  death  —  turned 
upward  to  the  moonlit  sky.  It  was  wonderful 
how  mechanically  and  quietly  they  went  to 
work,  promptly  and  silently  obeying  the  colo- 
nel's orders. 

John  Mellish  and  Mr.  Lofthouse  searclied 
the  slippery  grass  upon  the  bank,  and  groped 
among  the  fringe  of  fern,  without  result. 
There  was  no  weapon  to  be  found  anywhere 
within  a  consideratjle  radius  of  the  body. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


1-2; 


While  they  were  searching  in  every  direc- 
tion tor  this  niissina:  link  in  the  mystery  of  the 
man's  death,  the  parish  constable  arrived  with 
the  servant  who  had  been  sent  to  summon 
him. 

He  had  very  little  to  say  for  himself,  except 
that  he  supposed  it  was  poachers  as  liad  done 
it;  and  that  he  also  supposed  all  particklars 
would  come  out  at  the  inquest.  lie  was  a 
simple  rural  functionary,  accustomed  to  petty 
dealings  with  refractory  tramps,  contumacious 
poachers,  and  impounded  cattle,  and  was 
scarcely  master  of  tlie  situation  in  any  great 
emer<jency. 

Mr.  Prodder  and  the  servants  lifted  the 
plank  upon  which  the  body  lay,  and  struck 
into  the  long  avenue  leading  nortliward, 
walking  a  little  ahead  of  the  three  gentlemen 
and  the  constable.  The  young  man  from  the 
Reindeer  returned  to  look  after  his  horse,  and 
to  drive  round  to  the  north  lodge,  where  he 
was  to  meet  Mr.  Prodder.  All  liad  been  done 
so  quietly  that  the  knowledge  of  the  catas- 
troplie  had  not  passed  beyond  tiie  domains  of 
Mellish  Park.  In  the  holy  summer-evening 
stillness  James  Conyers  was  carried  back  to 
the  chamber  from  whose  narrow  window  he 
had  looked  out  upon  the  beautiful  world, 
weary  of  its  beauty,  only  a  few  hours  before. 

The  purposeless  life  was  suddenly  closed. 
The  careless  wanderer's  journey  had  come  to 
an  unthought-of  end.  What  a  melancholy 
record,  what  a  meaningless  and  unfinished 
page?  Nature,  blindly  bountiful  to  the  chil- 
dren whom  she  has  yet  to  know,  had  bestowed 
her  richest  gifts  upon  this  man.  She  iiad 
created  a  splendid  image,  and  had  chosen  a 
soul  at  random,  ignorantly  enshrining  it  in 
her  most  perfectly-fashioned  clay.  Of  all  who 
read  the  story  of  tliis  man's  death  in  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday's  newspapers,  there  was  not 
one  who  shed  a  tear  for  him;  there  wa.s  not 
one  who  could  say,  "  That  man  once  stepped 
out  of  his  way  to  do  me  a  kindness;  and  may 
the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  his  soul !" 

Slfall  I  be  sentimental,  then,  because  he  is 
dead,  and  regret  that  he  was  not  spared  a 
little  longer,  and  allowed  a  day  of  grace  in 
which  he  might  repent  V  Had  he  lived  for 
ever,  I  do  not  think  he  would  have  lived  long 
enough  to  become  that  which  it  was  not  in 
his  nature  to  be.  May  God,  in  His  infinite 
compassion,  have  pity  upon  the  souls  which 
He  has  Himself  created,  and  wiiere  He  has 
withheld  the  light,  may  he  excuse  the  dark- 
ness!  The  phrenologists  who  examined  the 
head  of  William  Palmer  declared  tiiat  he  was 
so  utterly  deficient  in  moral  perception,  so 
entirely  devoid  of  conscientious  restraint,  that 
he  could  not  help  being  what  he  was.  Heaven 
keep  us  from  too  much  credence  in  tliat  hor- 
rible fatalism  !  Is  a  man's  destiny  here  and 
hereafter  to  depend  upon  bulbous  projections 
scarcely  perceptible  to  uneducated  fingers, 
and  good  and  evil  propensities  whicli  can  be 


measured  by  the  compass  or  weighed  in  the 
scale  ? 

The  dismal  cortege  slowly  made  its  way  un- 
der the  silver  moonlight,  the  trembling  leaves 
making  a  murmuring  music  in  the  faint  sum- 
mer air,  the  pale  glowworm  sshining  here  and 
there  amid  the  tangled  verdure.  The  bearers 
of  the  dead  walked  with  a  slow  but  steady 
tramp  in  advance  of  the  rest.  All  walked  in 
silence.  What  should  they  say  ?  In  the 
presence  of  death's  awful  mystery  life  made 
a  pause.  There  was  a  brief  interval  in  the 
hard  business  of  existence  —  a  hushed  and 
solemn  break  in  the  working  of  life's  machin- 
ery. 

"  There  '11  be  an  incjuest,"  thought  Mr. 
Prodder,  "  and  I  shall  have  to  give  evidence. 
I  wonder  what  ipiestions  they  '11  ask  me  'i" 

He  did  not  think  this  once,  but  perpetually, 
dwelling  with  a  half-stupid  persistence  upon 
the  thought  of  that  incpiisition  which  must 
most  infallibly  be  made,  ami  thosi;  ([uestion>! 
that  might  be  asked.  The  honest  sailors  sim- 
ple mind  was  east  astray  in  the  utter  bewil- 
derment of  this  night's  mysterious  horror.  The 
story  of  life  was  changed.  He  had  (;ome  to 
play  his  liumble  part  in  .some  sweet  domestic 
drama  of  love  and  confidence,  and  lie  found 
himself  involved  in  a  tragedy  —  a  horrible 
mystery  of  hatred,  secrecy,  and  murder  —  a 
dreadful  maze,  from  whose  obscurity  he  saw 
no  hope  of  issue. 

A  beacon-light  glimmered  in  the  lower  win- 
dow of  the  cottage  by  the  north  gates  —  a 
feeble  ray,  that  glittered  like  a  gem  from  out 
a  bower  of  honeysuckle  and  clematis.  The 
little  garden-gate  was  closed,  but  it  only  fast- 
ened with  a  latch. 

The  bearers  of  the  body  paused  before  en- 
tering the  garden,  and  the  constable  stepped 
aside  to  speak  to  Mr.  Mellish. 

"Is  there  anybody  lives  in  the  cottage?" 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  answered  John  ;  "  the  trainer  em- 
ployed an  old  hanger-on  of  my  own  —  a  half- 
witted fellow,  called  Hargraves." 

"  It  "s  him  as  burns  the  light  in  there  most 
likely,  then,"  sai<l  the  constable.  "  I  'II  go  in 
and  speak  to  him  first.  Do  you  wait  here  till 
1  come  out  again,"  he  added,  turning  to  the 
men  who  carried  the  body. 

The  lodge-door  was  on  the  latch.  The  con- 
stable opened  it  .^oftly  an<l  went  in.  A  rush- 
light was  burning  upon  the  tabic,  the  candle- 
stick placed  in  a  basin  of  water.  A  bottle 
half  filled  with  brandy,  and  a  tumbler,  stood 
near  the  light  ;  but  the  room  was  empty. 
The  constable  took  his  shoes  oil",  and  crept 
up  the  little  staircase.  The  upper  floor  of  tlie 
lodge  consi.stcd  of  two  rooms — one,  suliicient- 
ly  large  and  comfortable,  looking  toward  the 
stable-gates;  the  other,  smaller  and  darker, 
looked  out  upon  a  jiatch  of  kitchen-garden 
and  on  the  fence  which  separated  Mr.  Mel- 
lish's  estati'  from  the  high-road.     The  larger 


128 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


chamber  was  empty ;  but  the  door  of  tlie 
smaller  was  ajar ;  and  the  constable,  pausing 
to  listen  at  that  hall-open  door,  heard  the 
regular  breathing  of  a  heavy  sleeper. 

He  knocked  sharply  upon  the  panel. 

"  Who  "s  there  "?"  asked  the  person  within, 
startincc  up  from  a  truckle  bedstead.  "  Is  't 
thou,  Muster  Conyers  ?" 

"No,"  answered  the  constable.  "  It  's  me, 
William  Dork,  of  Little  Meslingham.  Come 
down  stairs ;  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Is  there  aught  wrong  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Poachers  ?" 

"  Til  at  s  as  may  be,"  answered  Mr.  Dork. 
"  Gome  down  stairs,  will  you  ?" 

Mr.  Hargraves  muttered  something  to  the 
effect  that  he  would  make  his  appearance  as 
soon  as  he  could  find  sundry  portions  of  his 
rather  fragmentary  toilet.  The  constable 
looked  into  the  room,  and  watched  the  softy 
groping  for  liis  garments  in  the  moonlight. 
Three  minutes  afterward  Stephen  Hargraves 
slowly  shambled  down  the  angular  wooden 
stairs,  which  wound,  in  a  corkscrew  fashion 
affected  by  the  builders  of  small  dwellings, 
from  the  upper  to  the  lower  floor. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Dork,  planting  the  softy 
opposite  to  him,  with  the  feeble  rays  of  the 
rush-light  upon  his  sickly  face,  "  now  then,  I 
want  you  to  answer  me  a  (question.  At  what 
time  did  your  master  leave  the  house  V" 

"At  half-past  seven  o'clock,"  answered  the 
softy,  in  his  whispering  voice;  "she  was 
stroikin'  the  half-hour  as  he  went  out." 

He  pointed  to  a  small  Dutch  clock  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  room.  His  countrymen  always 
speak  of  a  clock  as  "  she." 

"  Oh,  he  went  out  at  hiUf-past  seven  o'clock, 
did  he  V"  said  the  constable  ;  "and  you  have 
u't  seen  him  since,  I  suppose  V" 

"  No.  He  told  me  he  should  be  late,  and  I 
was  n't  to  sit  oop  for  him.  He  swore  at  me 
last  night  for  sitting  oop  for  him.  But  is 
there  aught  wrong  V"  asked  the  softy. 

Mr.  Dork  did  not  condescend  to  reply  to 
this  question.  He  walked  straight  to  the 
door,  opened  it,  and  beckoned  to  those  who 
stood  without  in  the  summer  moonlight,  pa- 
tiently waiting  for  his  summons.  "  You  may 
bring  him  in,"  he  said. 

They  carried  their  ghastly  burden  into  the 
pleasant  rustic  chamber  —  the  chamber  in 
which  Mr.  James  Conyers  had  sat  smoking 
and  drinking  a  few  hours  before.  Mr.  Mor- 
ton, the  surgeon  from  IMeslingham,  the  village 
nearest  to  the  Park  gates,  arrived  as  the  body 
was  being  carried  in,  and  ordered  a  temporary- 
couch  of  mattresses  to  be  spread  upon  a 
couple  of  tables  placed  together,  in  the  lower 
room,  for  the  reception  of  the  trainers  corpse. 

John  Mellish,  Samuel  Prodder,  and  Mr.  Loft- 
house  remained  outside  of  the  cottage.  Colo- 
nel Maddison,  the  servants,  the  constable,  and 
the  doctor  were  all  clustered  round  the  corpse. 


"  He  has  been  dead  about  au  hour  and  a 
quarter,"  said  the  doctor,  after  a  brief  inspec- 
tion of  the  body.  "  He  has  been  shot  in  the 
back ;  the  bullet  has  not  penetrated  the  heart, 
for  in  that  case  there  would  have  been  no 
hemorrhage.  He  has  respired  atler  receiving 
the  shot ;  but  death  must  have  been  almost 
instantaneous." 

Before  making  his  examination,  the  sur- 
geon had  assisted  Mr.  Dork,  the  constable,  to 
draw  off  the  coat  and  waistcoat  of  the  de- 
ceased. The  bosom  of  the  waistcoat  was  satu- 
rated with  the  blood  that  had  flowed  from  the 
parted  lips  of  the  dead  man. 

It  was  Mr.  Dork's  business  to  examine  these 
garments,  in  the  hope  of  finding  some  shred 
of  evidence  which  might  become  a  clew  to  the 
secret  of  the  trainer's  death.  He  turned  out 
the  pockets  of  the  shooting-coat  and  of  the 
waistcoat;  one  of  these  pockets  contained  a 
handful  of  half-pence,  a  couple  of  shillings,  a 
fourpenny  piece,  and  a  rusty  watch-key;  an- 
other held  a  little  parcel  of  tobacco  wrapped 
in  an  old  betting-list,  and  a  broken  meerschaum 
pipe,  black  and  greasy  with  the  essential  oil 
of  by-gone  shag,  and  bird's  eye.  In  one  of  the 
waistcoat-pockets  Mr.  Dork  found  the  dead 
man's  silver  watch,  with  a  blood-stained  rib- 
bon and  a  worthless  gilt  seal.  Among  all 
these  things  there  was  nothing  calculated  to 
throw  any  light  upon  the  mystery.  Colonel 
Maddison  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  the  con- 
stable emptied  the  paltry  contents  of  the  train-" 
er's  pockets  on  to  a  little  dresser  at  one  end 
of  the  room. 

"  There  's  nothing  here  that  makes  the 
business  any  clearer,"  he  said ;  "  but,  to  my 
mind,  it  's  plain  enough.  The  man  w^s  new 
here,  and  he  brought  new  ways  with  him  from 
his  last  situation.  The  poachers  and  vaga- 
bonds have  been  used  to  have  it  all  their  own 
way  about  Mellish  Park,  and  they  did  n't  like 
this  poor  fellow's  interference.  He  wanted 
to  play  the  tyrant,  I  dare  say,  and  made  him- 
self obnoxious  to  some  of  the  worst  of  the  lot ; 
and  he  's  caught  it  hot,  poor  chap,  that*'s  all 
I  've  got  to  say." 

Colonel  Maddison,  with  the  recollection  of 
a  refractory  Punjaub  strong  upon  him,  had  no 
very  great  reverence  for  the  mysterious  spark 
that  lights  the  human  temple.  If  a  man  made 
himself  obnoxious  to  other  men,  other  men 
were  very  likely  to  kill  him.  This  was  the 
soldier's  simple  theory  ;  and,  having  delivered 
himself  of  his  opinion  respecting  the  trainer's 
death,  he  emerged  from  the  cottage,  and  was 
ready  to  go  home  with  John  Mellish,  ai\d 
drink  another  bottle  of  that  celebrated  tawny 
port  which  had  been  laid  in  by  his  host's  fath- 
er twenty  years  before. 

The  constable  stood  close  against  a  candle, 
that  had  been  hastily  lighted  and  thrust  un- 
ceremoniously into  a  disused  blacking-bottle, 
with  the  waistcoat  still  in  his  hands.  He  was 
turning  the  blood-stained  garment  inside  out; 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


129 


for,  while  emptying  the  pockets,  he  had  felt  a 
thick  substance  that  seemed  like  a  folded 
paper,  but  the  whereabouts  of  which  he  had 
not  been  able  to  discover.  He  uttered  a  sup- 
pressed exclamation  of  surpi'ise  presently,  for 
he  found  the  solution  of  this  difficulty.  The 
paper  wan  sewn  between  the  inner  lining  and 
the  outer  material  of  the  waistcoat.  He  dis- 
covered this  by  examining  the  seam,  a  part  of 
which  was  sewn  with  coarse  stitches,  and  a 
thread  of  a  <lifferent  color  to  the  rest.  He 
rip{)ed  open  this  part  of  the  seam,  and  drew 
oat  the  paper,  which  was  so  much  blood- 
stained as  to  be  undecipherable  to  Mr.  Uork's 
rather  obtuse  vision.  "  I  '11  say  naught  about 
it,  and  keep  it  to  show  to  th'  coroner,"  he 
thought;  "I  '11  lay  he  '11  make  something  out 
of  it."  The  constable  folded  the  document, 
and  secured  it  in  a  leathern  pocket-book,  a 
bulky  receptacle,  the  very  aspect  of  which 
was  wont  to  strike  terror  to  rustic  defaulters. 
•'I  '11  show  it  to  the  coroner."  he  thought, 
"  .and  if  aught  particklar  comes  out,  I  may 
get  something  for  m\'  trouble." 

The  village  surgeon,  having  done  his  duty, 
prepared  to  leave  the  crowded  little  room, 
where  the  gaping  .servants  still  hngercd,  as  if 
loath  to  tear  themselves  away  from  the  ghastly 
figure  of  the  dead  man,  over  which  Mr.  Mor- 
ton had  spread  a  patchwork  coverlet,  taken 
from  the  bed  in  the  chamber  above.  The 
softy  had  looked  on  quietly  enough  at  the  dis- 
mal scene,  watching  the  faces  of  the  small 
assembly,  and  glancing  furtively  from  one  to 
another  beneath  the  shadow  of  his  bushy  red 
eyebrows.  His  haggard  face,  always  of  a 
sickly  white,  seemed  to-night  no  more  color- 
less than  usual.  His  slow,  whispering  tones 
were  not  more  suppressed  than  they  always 
were.  If  he  had  a  hangdog  manner  and  a 
furtive  glance,  the  manner  and  the  glance 
were  both  common  to  him.  No  one  looked  at 
him,  no  one  heeded  him.  After  the  first 
question  as  to  the  hour  at  which  the  trainer 
left  the  lodge  had  been  asked  and  answered, 
no  one  spoke  to  him.  If  he  got  in  anybody's 
w.a\ ,  he  was  puslied  aside  ;  if  he  said  anything, 
nobody  listened  to  him.  The  dead  man  was 
the  sole  monarch  of  that  dismal  scene.  It 
w.as  to  him  they  looked  with  awe-stricken 
glances ;  it  was  of  him  they  spoke  in  subdued 
whispers.  All  their  questions,  their  sugges- 
tions, their  conjectures,  were  about  him,  and 
him  alone.  There  is  this  to  be  observed  in 
the  physiology  of  every  murder  —  that  before 
the  coroner's  inquest  the  sole  object  of  public 
curiosity  is  tiic  murdered  man  ;  while  imme- 
diately after  that  judicial  investigation  the  tide 
of  feeliug  turns,  the  dead  man  is  buried  and  for- 
gotten, and  the  .suspected  murderer  becomes 
the  hero  of  men's  morbid  imaginations. 

John  Mellish  looked  in  at  the  door  of  the 
cottage  to  ask  a  few  questions. 

"  Have  you  found  anything,  Dork  ?"  he 
asked. 

9 


"  Nothing  particklar,  sir." 

"Nothing  that  throws  any  light  upon  this 
business  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  You  are  going  home,  then,  I.  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  must  be  going  back  now ;  if 
you  '11  leave  some  one  here  to  watch  —  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  John,  "one  of  the  servants 
shall  stay." 

"Very  well,  then,  sir;  I  '11  just  take  the 
names  of  the  witnesses  that  '11  be  examined  at 
the  inquest,  and  I  '11  go  over  and  see  the  cor- 
oner early  to-morrow  morning." 

"  The  witnesses  —  ah !  to  be  sure.  Who 
will  you  want  V" 

Mr.  Dork  hesitated  for  a  moment,  rubbing 
the  bristles  upon  his  chin.  / 

"  Well,  there  's  this  man  here,  Hargraves, 
I  think  you  called  him,"  he  said  presently, 
"  we  shall  want  him  ;  fur  it  seems  he  was  the 
last  that  saw  the  deceased  .ilive,  leastways  as 
I  can  hear  on  yet ;  then  we  shall  want  the 
gentleman  as  found  the  body,  and  the  young 
man  as  was  with  him  when  he  heard  tiie  shot: 
the  gentleman  as  found  the  body  is  the  most 
particklar  of  all,  and  I  '11  speak  to  him  at 
once." 

John  Mellish  turned  round,  fully  expecting 
to  see  Mr.  Proilder  at  his  elbow,  where  he 
had  been  some  time  before.  John  had  a  per- 
fect recollection  of  seeing  the  loosely- clad 
seafaring  figure  standing  behind  him  in  the 
moonlight;  but,  in  the  terrible  contusion  of 
his  mind,  he  could  not  remember  exactly 
when  it  was  that  he  had  last  seen  the  saiior : 
it  might  have  been  only  five  minutes  before — 
it  might  have  been  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
John's  ideas  of  time  were  annihilated  by  the 
horror  of  the  catastrophe  which  had  marked 
this  night  with  the  red  brand  of  murder.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  been  standing  for 
hours  in  the  little  cottage  garden,  with  Regi- 
nald Lofthousc  by  his  side,  listening  to  the  low 
hum  of  the  voices  in  the  crowde<l  room,  and 
waiting  to  see  the  end  of  the  dreary  business. 

Mr.  Dork  lo<jked  about  him  in  the  moon- 
light, entirely  bewildered  by  the  disappear- 
ance of  Samuel  Proddcr. 

"  Why,  where  on  earth  has  he  gone  ?"  ex- 
claimed the  constable.  "  We  must  have  him 
before  the  coroner.  What  '11  Mr.  Hayward 
say  to  me  for  letting  him  slip  through  my 
fingers  ?" 

"  The  man  w.as  here  a  quarter  oC  an  hour 
ago,  so  he  can't  be  very  far  off,"suggi'Sted  Mr. 
Lofthouse.  "Docs  anybody  know  who  he 
isV" 

No;  nobody  knew  anything  about  him.  He 
had  appeared  as  mysteriously  as  if  he  had 
risen  from  the  earth,  to  bring  terror  and  con- 
fusion upon  it  with  the  evil  tidings  which  he 
bore,  otay  !  some  one  suddenly  remembered 
that  he  h.ad  been  accompanied  l)y  Bill  Jarvis, 
the  young  man  from  the  Reindeer,  and  that 
he  had  ordered  the  young  m.aii  to  drire  bia 


130 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


trap  to  the  noith  gates,  and  wait  for  him 
there. 

The  constable  ran  to  the  gates  upon  receiv- 
ing this  information  ;  but  there  was  no  vestige 
of  the  horse  and  gig,  or  of  the  young  man. 
Samuel  Prodder  had  evidently  taken  advan- 
tage of  the  confusion,  and  had  driven  off  in 
the  gig  under  cover  of  the  general  bewilder- 
ment. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do,  8ir,"  said  Wil- 
liam Dork,  addressing  Mr.  Mellish  ;  "  if  you  '11 
lend  me  a  horse  and  trap,  I  '11  drive  into 
Doncaster,  and  see  if  this  man  's  to  be  found 
at  the  Reindeer.  We  must  have  him  for  a 
witness." 

John  ^lellish  assented  to  this  arrangement. 
He  left  one  of  the  grooms  to  keep  watch  in 
the  death-chamber,  in  company  with  Stephen 
Hargraves,  the  softy ;  and,  after  bidding  the 
surgeon  good-night,  walked  slowly  homeward 
with  his  friends.  The  church  clock  was  strik- 
ing twelve  as  the  three  gentlemen  left  the 
wood,  and  passed  through  the  little  iron  gate- 
way on  to  the  lawn. 

"  We  had  better  not  tell  the  ladies  more 
than  we  are  obliged  to  tell  them  about  this 
business,"  said  John  Mellish,  as  they  ap- 
proached the  house,  where  the  lights  were 
still  burning  in  the  hall  and  drawmg-room; 
"  we  shall  only  agitate  them  by  letting  them 
know  the  worst." 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,  my  boy,"  answered 
the  colonel.  "  My  poor  little  Maggie  always 
cries  if  she  hears  of  anything  of  this  kind ; 
and  Lofbhouse  is  almost  as  big  a  baby,"  added 
the  soldier,  glancing  rather  contemptuously 
at  his  son-in-law,  who  had  not  spoken  once 
during  that  slow  homeward  walk. 

John  Mellish  thought  very  little  of  the 
strange  disappearance  of  Captain  Prodder. 
The  man  had  objected  to  be  summoned  as  a 
witness  perhaps,  and  had  gone.  It  was  only 
natural.  He  did  not  even  know  his  name ; 
he  only  knew  him  as  the  mouth-piece  of  evil 
tidings,  which  had  shaken  him  to  the  very 
soul.  That  this  man  Conyers  —  this  man  of 
all  others,  this  man  toward  whom  he  had  con- 
ceived a  deeply-rooted  aversion,  an  unspoken 
horror — should  have  perished  mysteriously  by 
an  unknown  hand,  was  an  event  so  strange 
and  appalling  as  to  deprive  him  for  a  time  of 
all  power  of  thought,  all  capability  of  reason- 
ing. Who  had  killed  this  man  —  this  penni- 
less, good-for-nothing  trainer  ?  Who  could 
have  had  any  motive  for  such  a  deed  ?  Who — 
The  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  his  brow  in 
the  anguish  of  the  thought. 

Who  had  done  this  deed  ? 

It  was  not  the  work  of  any  poacher.  No. 
It  was  very  well  for  Colonel  Maddison,  in  his 
ignorance  of  antecedent  facts,  to  account  for 
it  in  that  manner;  but  John  Mellish  knew 
that  he  was  wrong.  James  Conyers  had  only 
been  at  the  Park  a  week.  He  had  had  neither 
time  nor  opportunity  for  making  himself  ob- 


noxious ;  and,  beyond'  that,  he  was  not  the 
man  to  make  himself  obnoxious.  He  was  a 
selfish,  indolent  rascal,  who  only  loved  his 
own  ease,  and  who  would  have  allowed  the 
young  partridges  to  be  wired  under  his  very 
nose.     Who,  then,  had  done  this  deed  ? 

There  was  only  one  person  who  had  any 
motive  for  wishing  to  be  rid  of  this  man. 
One  person  who,  made  desperate  by  some 
great  despair,  enmeshed  perhaps  by  some  net 
hellishly  contrived  by  a  villain,  hopeless  of 
any  means  of  extrication,  in  a  moment  of 
madness,  might  have — No !  In  the  face  of 
every  evidence  that  earth  could  offer — against 
reason,  against  hearing,  eyesight,  judgment, 
and  memory  —  he  would  say,  as  he  said  now, 
No  !  She  was  innocent !  She  was  innocent  I 
She  had  looked  in  her  husband's  face,  the 
clear  light  had  shone  from  her  luminous  eyes, 
a  stream  of  electric  radiance  penetrating 
straight  to  his  heart — and  he  had  trusted  her. 

"  I  '11  trust  her  at  the  worst,"  he  thought. 
"If  all  living  creatures -.upon  this  wide  earth 
joined  their  voices  in  one  great  cry  of  up- 
braiding, I  'd  stand  by  her  to  the  very  end, 
and  defy  them." 

Aurora  and  Mrs.  Lofthouse  had  fallen 
asleep  upon  opposite  sofas ;  Mrs.  Powell  was 
walking  softly  up  and  down  the  long  draw- 
ing-room, waiting  and  watching  —  waiting  for 
a  fuller  knowledge  of  this  ruin  which  had 
come  upon  her  employer's  household. 

Mrs.  Mellish  sprang  up  suddenly  at  the 
sound  of  her  husband's  step  as  he  entered  the 
drawing-room. 

"  Oh,  John,"  she  cried,  running  to  him  and 
laying  her  hands  upon  his  broad  shoulders, 
"  thank  Heaven  you  are  come  back  !  Now 
tell  me  all — tell  me  all,  John.  I  am  prepared 
to  hear  anything,  no  matter  what.  This  is  no 
ordinary  accident.    The  man  who  was  hurt — " 

Her  eyes  dilated  as  she  looked  at  him  with 
a  glance  of  intelligence  that  plainly  said,  "  I 
can  £^uess  what  has  happened." 

"  The  man  was  very  seriously  hurt,  Lolly," 
her  husband  answered,  quietly. 

"  What  man  ?" 

"  The  trainer  recommended  to  me  by  John 
Pastern." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  few  monuMits  in 
silence. 

"  He  is  dead  ?"  she  said,  after  that  brief 
pause. 

"  He  is." 

Her  head  sank  forward  upon  hor  breast, 
and  she  walked  away,  quietly  returning  to 
the  sofa  from  which  she  had  arisen. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  him,"  she  said  ;  "  he 
was  not  a  good  man.  I  am  sorry  he  was  not 
allowed  time  to  repent  of  his  wickedness." 

"  You  knew  iiim,  then  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Loft- 
house, who  had  expressed  unbounded  con- 
sternation at  the  trainer's  death. 

"  Yes ;  he  was  in  my  father's  service  some 
years  ago." 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


181 


Mr.  Lofthouse's  carriage  had  been  waiting  I  ma'am."  retorted  Mr.  Mellisli,  with  no  very 
ever  since  eleveii  o'clock,  and  the  rector's  j  great  show  of  politeness.  "  ^ly  wife  will  not 
wife  was  only  too  glad  to  bid  her  friends  appear.  Who  should  ask  her  to  do  so  ?  Who 
good-night,  and  to  drive  away  from  Mellish  should  wish  her  to  do  so  ?  What  has  she  to 
Park  and  its  fatal  associations  ;  so,  though  I  do  with  to-night's  business  ?  or  what  does  she 
Colonel  Maddison  would  have  preferred  stop-  I  know  of  it  more  than  you  or  I,  or  any  one 
ping  to  smoke  another  cheroot  while  he  dis-  j  else  in  this  house  ?'" 


cussed  the  business  with  John  Mellish,  he  was 
fain  to  submit  to  feminine  authority,  and  take 
his  seat  by  his  daughter's  side  in  the  comfort- 
able landau,  which  was  an  open  or  a  close 
carriage,  as  the  convenience  of  its  proprietor 
dictated.  The  vehicle  rolled  away  upon  the 
smooth  carriage-drive  ;  the  servants  closed  the 


Mrs.  Powell  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  thought  that,  from  Mrs.  ^lellish's  pre- 
vious knowledge  of  this  unfortunate  person, 
she  might  be  able  to  throw  some  light  upon  hia 
habits  and  associations,'"  she  suggested,  mildlv- 

"  Previous  knowledge !"  roared  John.  "'What, 
knowledire  should  Mrs.  Mellish  have  of  her 


hall-doors,  and  lingered  about,  whispering  to  |  father's  grooms  ?  What  interest  should  she 
each  other,  in  little  groujis  in  the  corri(lors  i  take  in  their  habits  or  associations  ?'" 
and  on  the  stain-ases,  waiting  until  their  mas-  |  "  ytop,"  said  Aurora,  rising  and  laying  her 
ter  and  mistress  should  have  retired  ibr  the  i  hand  ligiitly  on  her  husband's  shoulder.  "  My 
night.  It  was  difhcult  to  think  that  th<>  busi-  '  dear,  impetuous  John,  why  do  j-ou  put  your- 
ness  of  life  was  to  go  on  just  the  same  though  self  into  a  })assion  about  this  business?  [f 
a  murder  had  been  done  upon  the  outskirts  of  they  choose  to  call  me  as  a  witness,  I  will  tell 
the  Park,  and  even  the  housekeeper,  a  severe  all  1  know  about  this  man's  death,  which  is 
matron  at  ordinary  times,  yielded  to  the  com-  nothing  but  that  I  heard  a  shot  tirecl  while  1 
mon  influence,  anil  forgot  to  drive  the  maids    was  in  the  grounds." 

to  their  dormitories  in  the  gabled  roof  i       She   was  very  pale,   but  she  spoke  with  a 

All   was   very  (juiet    in    the  drawing-room  '  quiet  determination,  a  calm,  resolute  defiance 
where   the    visitors    had   left   their   host  and  '  of  the  worst  that  fate  could  reserve  for  her. 
hostess  to  hug  those  ugly  skeletons  which  are  j      "I  will  tell  anything  that  it  is  necessary  to 
put  away  in  tiie  presence  of  company.     John  :  tell,"  she  said;    "I  care  verv  little  what." 


Mellish  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  room. 
Aurora  sat  staring  vacantly  at  the  gutter- 
tag  wax  candles  in  the  old-fashioned  silver 
branches;  and  Mrs.  Powell,  with  her  em- 
broidery in  full  working-order,  threaded  her 
needles  and  snipped  away  the  fragments  of 


With  her  hand  still  upon  her  husband'?; 
shoulder,  she  rested  her  head  on  his  breast 
like  some  weary  child  nestling  in  its  only  safe 
shelter. 

Mrs.  Powell  rose,  and  gathered  together 
her  embroidery  in  a  pretty,  lady-like  recep- 


her  delicate  cotton  as  i-arefully  as  it'  there  had  '  tacle  of  fragile  wicker-work.  She  glided  to 
been  no  such  thing  as  crime  or  trouble  in  the  j  the  door,  sekicted  her  candlestick,  and  p:mscd 
world,  and  no  higher  purpose  in  life  than  the  '  on  the  threshold  to  bid  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish 
achievement  of  elaborate  devices  upon  French  I  good-night. 

cambric.  !      "  I  am  sure  you  must  need  rest  after  this 

She  paused  now  and  then  to  utter  some  |  terrible  aflair,"  she  simpered,  "  so  I  will  take 
polite  commonplace.  She  regretted  such  an  '  the  initiative.  Tt  is  nearly  one  o'clock.  Good- 
uupleasant  catastrophe ;  she  lamented  the  dis-  !  night." 

agreeable  circumstances  of  the  trainer's  death;  j  If  she  had  lived  in  the  Thane  of  Cawdor's 
indeed,  she  in  a  manner  inferred  that  jSIr.  [  family,  she  would  have  wished  Macbctii  and 
Conyers  had  shown  himself  wanting  in  good  !  his  wife  a  good  night's  rest  after  Duncan's 
taste  and  respect  for  his  employer  by  the  I  murder,  and  would  have  hoped  they  would 
mode  of  his  death;  but  the  point  to  which  I  sleep  well;  she  would  have  courtesi.'(l  a.nd 
she  recurred  most  frequently  was  the  fact  of  i  simpered  amid  the  tolling  of  alarm-bells  the 
Aurora's  presence  in  the  grounds  at  the  time  !  clashing  of  vengeful  swords,  and  the  blao<l- 
of  the  murder.  bedabbled  visages  of  the  drunken  grooms.    It 

"  I  so  much  regret  that  you  should  have  j  must  have  been  the  Scottish  (pieen's  compan- 
been  out  of  doors  at  the  time,  my  dear  Mrs.  '  inn  who  watched  with  th»^  truckling  phytn- 
Mellish,"  she  said  ;  "  and,  a*  1  should  imagine,  j  cian,  and  played  the  spy  upon  her  mi.stress''* 
from  the  direction  which  you  took  on  having  remorseful  wanderings,  and  told  how  it  was 
the  house,  actually  near  the  place  where  the  1  the  conscience-stricken  lady's  habit  to  do  thus 
unfortunate  man  met  his  death.  It  will  be  j  and  thus;  no  one  but  a  genteel  merccniarv 
so  unpleasant  for  you  to  have  to  appear  at  the  '  would  have  been  so  sleepless  in  the  dead 
inquest."  '  I  hours  of  the  night,  lying  in  wait  for  the  rev»»- 

"Appear  at  the  inquest!"  cried  John  Mel-  j  lation  of  horrible  secrciP.  the  muttered  clews 
lish,  stopping  suddenly,  and  turning  fiercely  !  to  deadly  mysteries. 

upon   the  placid   speaker      "Who   says  that  |      "Thank   C^kI,  she  's  gone  at  last!"  cried 
my  wife  will  have  to  appear  at  the  inquest'/"'    John  Mellish.  as  the  door  closed  very  .soflly 
*'  I  merely  imagined  it  probable  that—"        i  and  verV  slowly  ui>on  Mrs.  Powell.     "  I  hat« 
*'  Then   YOU   \\  no  busmees  to  imagine  it,  !  that  woman,  Lolly" 


132 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Heaven  knows  I  have  nevci*  oallcd  John 
Mellish  a  hero ;  I  have  never  set  him  up  as  a 
model  of  manly  perfection  or  infallible  vir- 
tue ;  and,  if  he  is  not  faultless,  if  he  has  those 
flaws  and  blemishes  which  seem  a  constituent 
part  of  our  imperfect  clay,  I  make  no  apology 
for  him,  but  trust  him  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  those  who,  not  being  quite  perfect  them- 
.selves,  will,  I  am  sure,  be  merciful  to  him. 
He  hated  those  who  hated  his  wife,  or  did 
her  any  wrong,  however  small.  He  loved 
those  who  loved  her.  In  the  great  power  of 
,'us  wide  affection,  all  self-esteem  was  annihi- 
lated. To  love  her  was  to  love  him  ;  to  serve 
l;er  was  to  do  him  treble  service ;  to  praise 
her  was  to  make  him  vainer  than  the  vainest 
.s*^hool  -  girl.  He  freely  took  upon  his  shoul- 
ders every  debt  that  she  owed,  whether  of  love 
or  of  hate ;  and  he  was  ready  to  pay  either 
sipecies  of  account  to  the  utmost  farthing,  and 
with  no  mean  interest  upon  the  sum  total. 
"  I  hate  that  woman,  Lolly,"  he  repeated, 
"  and  I  shan't  be  able  to  stand  her  much 
longer." 

Aurora  did  not  answer  him.  She  was  silent 
thv  some  moments,  and  when  she  did  speak 
it  was  evident  that  Mrs.  Powell  was  very  far 
;iway  from  her  thoughts. 

"  My  poor  John,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  soft 
voice,  whose  melancholy  tenderness  went 
straight  to  her  husband's  heart ;  "  my  dear, 
liow  happy  we  were  together  for  a  little  time  ! 
How  very  happy  we  were,  my  poor  boy  !" 

''Always,  Lolly,"  he  answered,  "always, 
my  darling." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  Aurora,  suddenly  ;  "  only 
for  a  little  while.  What  a  horrible  fatality 
has  pursued  us!  what  a  frightful  curse  has 
ctlung  to  me !  The  curse  of  disobedience, 
John  —  the  curse  of  Heaven  upon  my  disobe- 
dience. To  think  that  this  man  should  have 
{x^en  sent  here,  and  that  he — " 

Slie  stopped,  shivering  violently,  and  cling- 
mj'  to  the  faithful  breast  that  sheltered  her. 

John  Mellish  quietly  led  her  to  her  dress- 
ing-room, and  placed  her  in  the  care  of  her 
maid. 

"  Your  mistress  has  been  very  mu(!h  agi- 
tated by  this  night's  business,"  he  said  to  the 
girl;  "keep  her  as  quiet  as  you  possibly  can." 

Mrs.  Mellish's  bedroom,  a  comfortable  and 
roomy  apartment,  with  a  low  ceiling  and  deep 
bay-windows,  opened  into  a  morning-room,  in 
which  it  was  John's  habit  to  read  the  news- 
papers and  sporting  periodicals,  while  his  wife 
wrote  letters,  drew  pencil  sketches  of  dogs 
and  hoi'ses,  or  played  with  her  favorite  Bow- 
wow. They  had  been  very  childish,  and  idle, 
and  happy  in  this  pretty  chintz-hung  cham- 
ber ;  and,  going  into  it  to-night  in  utter  deso- 
lation of  heart,  Mr.  Mellish  felt  his  sorrows 
all  the  more  bitterly  for  the  remembrance  of 
those  by-gone  joys.  The  shaded  lamp  was 
Hghted  on  the  morocco-covered  writing-table, 
and  glimmered  softly  on  the  picture-frames. 


caressing  the  pr*tty  modern  paintings,  the 
simple,  domestic-story  pictures  which  adorned 
the  subdued  gray  walls.  This  wing  of  the 
old  house  had  been  refurnished  for  Aurora, 
and  there  was  not  a  chair  or  a  table  in  the 
room  that  had  not  been  chosen  by  John  Mel- 
lish with  a  special  view  to  the  comfort  and  the 
pleasure  of  his  wife.  The  upholsterer  had 
found  him  a  liberal  employer,  the  painter  and 
the  sculptor  a  noble  patron.  He  had  walked 
about  the  Royal  Academy  with  a  catalogue 
and  a  pencil  in  his  hand,  choosing  all  the 
'•  pretty "  pictures  for  the  beautification  of 
his  wife's  rooms.  A  .lady  in  a  scarlet  riding- 
habit  and  three-cornered  beaver  hat,  a  white 
pony,  and  a  pack  of  greyhounds,  a  bit  of 
stone  terrace  and  sloping  turf,  a  flower-bed, 
and  a  fountain  made  poor  John's  idea  of  a 
pretty  picture;  and  he  had  half  a  dozen  vari- 
ations of  such  familiar  subjects  in  his  spacious 
mansion.  He  sat  down  to-night,  and  looked 
hopelessly  round  the  pleasant  chamber,  won- 
dering whether  Aui'ora  and  he  would  ever  be 
happy  again  —  wondering  if  this  dark,  mys- 
terious, storm -threateninsi  cloud  would  ever 
pass  from  the  horizon  of  his  life,  and  leave  the 
future  bright  and  clear. 

"  I  have  not  been  good  enouprh,"  he  thought ; 
"  I  have  intoxicated  myself  with  my  happ't- 
ness,  and  have  made  no  return  for  it.  What 
am  I,  that  1  should  have  won  the  woman  I 
love  for  my  wife,  while  other  men  are  layinj; 
down  the  best  desires  of  their  hearts  a  willing 
sacrifice,  and  going  out  to  fight  the  battle  for 
their  fellow-men  ?  AVhat  an  indolent,  good- 
for-nothing  wretch  I  have  been  !  How  blind, 
how  ungrateful,  how  undeserving!" 

John  Mellish  buried  his  face  in  his  broad 
hands,  and  repented  of  the  carelessly  happy 
life  which  he  had  led  for  one -and- thirty 
thoughtless  years.  He  had  been  awakened 
from  his  unthinking  bliss  by  a  thunder-clap, 
that  had  shattered  the  fairy  castle  of  his  hap- 
piness, and  laid  it  level  with  the  ground  ;  and 
in  his  simple  faith  he  looked  into  his  own  life 
for  the  cause  of  the  ruin  which  had  overtaken 
him.  Yes,  it  must  be  so  ;  he  had  not  deserved 
his  happiness,  he  had  not  earned  his  good  for- 
tune. Have  you  ever  thought  of  this,  ye  sim- 
ple country  squires,  who  give  blankets  and 
beef  to  your  poor  neighbors  in  the  cruel  win- 
ter-time, who  are  good  and  gentle  masters, 
faithful  husbands,  and  tender  fathers,  and 
who  lounge  away  your  easy  lives  in  the  pleas- 
ant places  of  this  beautiful  earth'";;'  Have  you 
ever  thought  that,  when  all  your  good  deeds 
have  been  gathered  together  and  set  in  the 
balance,  the  sum  of  them  will  be  very  small 
when  set  against  the  benefits  you  have  receiv- 
ed ?  It  will  be  a  very  small  percentage  which 
you  will  yield  your  Master  for  the  ten  talenta 
intrusted  to  your  care.  Remember  John 
Howard,  fever-stricken  and  dying,  Mrs.  Fry, 
laboring  in  criminal  prisons,  Florence  Night- 
ingale, in  the  bare  hospital  chambers,  in  the 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


133 


close  and  noxious  atmosphere  among  the  dead 
and  the  dying.  These  are  the  people  ■who 
return  cent  per  cent  for  the  gifts  intrusted  to 
them.  These  are  the  saints  whose  good  deeds 
shine  among  the  stars  for  ever  an<l  ever ; 
these  are  the  indefatigable  workers  who,  when 
the  toil  and  turmoil  of  the  day  is  done,  hear 
the  Master's  voice  in  the  still  even-time  wel- 
«'oming  them  to  His  rest. 

John  Mellish,  looking  back  at  his  life,  hum- 
bly acknowledged  that  it  had  been  a  compar- 
atively useless  one.  He  had  distributed  hap- 
piness to  the  people  who  had  come  in  his  way, 
but  he  had  never  gone  out  of  his  way  to 
make  people  happy.  I  dare  say  that  Dives 
was  a  liberal  master  to  his  own  servants,  al- 
though he  did  not  ti  ouble  nim.sclf  to  look  after 
the  beggar  who  sat  at  his  gates.  The  Israel- 
it.e  who  sought  instruction  from  the  lips  of 
inspiration  was  willing  to  do  his  duty  to  his 
neighbor,  but  had  yet  to  learn  the  broad  sig- 
nification of  that  fatniliar  ei)ithet;  and  poor 
John,  like  the  rich  young  man,  was  ready  to 
serve  his  Master  faithfully,  but  had  yet  to 
learn  the  manner  of  his  service. 

"  If  I  could  save  her  from  the  shadow  of 
sorrow  or  disgrace,  I  would  start  to-morrow 
barefoot  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem,"  he 
thought.  "  What  is  there  that  I  would  not 
do  lor  her  ?  what  sacrifice  would  teem  too 
great?  what  burden  too  heavy  to  bear?" 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

AT      T  H  K     GOLDEN      LION. 

Mr.  William  Dork,  the  constable,  reached 
Doneaster  at  about  quarter- past  one  o'clock 
upon  the  morning  after  the  murder,  and  drove 
.straight  to  the.  Reindeer.  That  hotel  had 
been  closed  for  a  couple  of  hours,  and  it  was 
only  by  the  exercise  of"  his  authority  that  Mr. 
Dork  obtained  access,  and  a  hearing  from  the 
sleepy  landlord.  The  young  man  who  had 
driven  Mr.  Prodder  was  found  after  <onsider- 
able  difhculty,  and  came  stumbling  tlown  the 
servants'  staircase  iu  a  semi-sonuiolent  state 
to  answer  the  constable's  inquiries.  He  had 
driven  the  s(!afaring  gentleman,  whose  name 
he  did  uot  know,  direct  to  the  Doneaster  Sta- 
tion, in  time  to  catch  the  mail -train,  which 
started  at  12.50.  He  had  parted  with  the 
gentleman  at  the  door  of  the  station  three 
minutes  brfore  the  train  started. 

This  was  all  th<!  information  that  Mr.  Dork 
could  obtain.  If  he  had  been  a  sharp  Ixjndon 
detective,  he  might  have  made  his  arrange- 
ments for  laying  hands  tipnn  the  fugitive  sailor 
at  the  first  station  at  which  the  train  stopped; 
but  being  merely  a  simple  rural  functionary, 
he  scraUhed  his  gtubblo  head,  and  stared  at 
the  landlord  of  the  Reindeer  in  utter  mental 
bewilderment. 

"  He  was  in  a  devil  of  a  hurry,  this  chap," 


he  muttered  rather  sulkily.     '*  What  did  he 
want  to  coot  away  for  ?" 

The  young  man  who  had  acted  as  chariot- 
eer could  not  answer  this  ques-tion.     He  only 
knew  that  the  seafaring  gentleman  had  prom 
ised  him   half  a  sovereign   if  he   caught  the 
mail-train,  and  that  he  had  earned  his  reward. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  a'n't  so  very  partick- 
lar,"  said  Mr.  Dork,  sipping  a  glass  of  rum, 
which  he  had  ordered  tor  his  refre.«hmeni. 
"You  '11  have  to  appear  to-morrow,  and  you 
can  tell  nigh  as  much  as  t'  other  chap,"  he 
added,  turning  to  the  young  m.an.  "  You  was 
with  him  when  the  shot  were  fired,  and  yon 
warn't  far  when  he  found  the  body.  You  '11 
have  to  appear  and  give  evidence  whenever 
the  inquest  's  held.  I  doubt  if  it  11  be  to- 
morrow, for  there  won't  be  much  time  to  give 
notice  to  the  coroner.'' 

Mr.  Dork  wrote  the  young  mans  name  in 
his  pocket-book,  and  the  landlord  vouched 
for  his  being  forthcoming  when  called  upon. 
Having  done  thus  much,  the  constable  left 
the  inn,  after  drinking  another  glass  of  rum, 
and  refreshing  John  Mellish's  horse  with  a 
handful  of  oats  and  a  drink  of  water.  He 
drove  at  a  brisk  pace  back  to  the  Park  stables, 
delivered  the  horst^  and  gig  to  the  lad  who 
had  waited  for  his  coming,  and  returned  to 
his  comfortable  little  dwelling  in  the  village 
of  Meslingham,  about  a  mile  from  the  Park 
gates. 

I  scarcely  know  how  to  describe  that  long, 
quiet,  miserable  day  which  succeeded  the  night 
of  the  murder.  Aurora  Mellish  lay  in  a  dull 
stupor,  not  able  to  litl  her  head  from  the  pil- 
lows upon  whi'h  it  rested,  scarcely  caring  to 
raise  her  eyelids  from  the  aching  eyes  they 
sheltered.  She  wa.s  not  ill.  nor  did  she  affect 
to  be  ill.  She  lay  upon  the  sofa  in  her  dresjv- 
ing-room,  attended  by  her  maid,  and  visited 
at  intervals  by  John,  who  roamed  hither  and 
thither  about  the  liou.se  and  grounds,  talking 
to  innumerable  people,  and  always  coming  to 
the  sann?  conclusion,  namely,  that  the  whole 
affair  was  a  horrible  mystery,  and  that  he 
heartily  wished  the  inquest  well  over.  H« 
had  visitors  from  twenty  miles  round  his  house 
—  for  the  evil  news  had  sprcid  far  and  wide 
before  noon  —  visitors  who  came  to  condole, 
and  trt  sympathize,  and  wonder,  and  specu- 
late, and  ask  questions,  until  they  fairly  firovc 
him  mad.  But  he  bore  all  very  patiently. 
He  could  tell  them  nothing  except  that  the 
business  was  as  dark  a  mystery  to  him  as  it 
could  be  to  them,  and  that  he  had  no  hope  of 
finding  any  solution  to  the  ghastly  eni^ra.!. 
They  one  and  all  asked  him  the  same  ques- 
tion, "  Had  any  one  a  motive  for  killing  thi** 
man  ?" 

How  could  he  answer  them  ?  He  might 
have  fold  them  that  if  twenty  pers<ms  hafi  bad 
a  powerful  motive  for  killing  J.imes  Conytra. 
it  was  possible  that  a  one-and-twenlieth  jier- 
SOD,  who  bad  no  motive,  might  have  done-  the 


1-34 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


deed.  That  species  of  argument  which  builds 
up  any  hypothesis  out  of  a  series  of  probabili- 
ties may,  after  all,  lead  very  often  to  false 
(.•onelusions. 

^Ir.  Mellish  did  not  attempt  to  argue  the 
question.  He  was  too  weary  and  sick  at 
heart,  too  anxious  for  the  inquest  to  be  over, 
and  he  free  to  carry  Aurora  away  with  him, 
and  turn  his  back  upon  the  familiar  place, 
which  had  been  hateful  to  him  ever  since  the 
trainer  had  crossed  its  threshold. 

"  Yes,  my  darling,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  as 
he  bent  over  her  pillow,  "  I  shall  take  you 
away  to  the  south  of  France  directly  this  busi- 
ness is  settled.  You  shall  leave  the  scene  of 
all  past  associations,  all  by -gone  annoyances. 
We  will  begin  the  world  afresh." 

"  God  grant  that  we  may  be  able  to  do  so," 
Aurora  answered,  gravely.  "Ah!  my  dear,  I 
can  not  tell  you  that  I  am  sorry  for  this  man's 
death.  If  he  had  died  nearly  two  years  ago, 
when  I  thought  he  did,  how  much  misery  he 
would  have  saved  me  !" 

Once  in  the  course  of  that  long  summer's 
afternoon  Mr.  Mellish  walked  across  the  Park 
to  the  cottage  at  the  north  gates.  He  could 
i50t  repress  a  morbid  desire  to  look  upon  the 
lifeless  clay  of  the  man  whose  presence  had 
caused  him  such  vague  disquietude,  such  in- 
stinctive terror.  IJe  found  the  softy  leaning 
on  the  gate  of  the  little  garden,  and  one  of 
the  grooms  standing  at  the  door  of  the  death- 
chamber. 

"  The  inquest  is  to  be  held  at  the  Golden 
ijiou  at  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,"  Mr. 
Mellish  said  to  the  men.  "  You,  Hargraves, 
will  be  wanted  as  a  witness." 

He  walked  into  the  darkened  chamber. 
The  groom  understood  what  he  came  for,  and 
.■silently  withdrew  the  white  drapery  that  cov- 
ered the  trainer's  dead  face. 

Accustomed  hands  had  done  their  awful 
duty.  The  strong  limbs  had  been  straight- 
ened. The  lower  jaw,  which  had  dropped  in 
the  agony  of  sudden  death,  was  supported  by 
a  linen  bandage;  the  eyelids  were  closed  over 
the  dark  violet  eyes;  and  the  face,  which  had 
been  beautiful  in  life,  was  even  yet  more 
beautiful  in  the  still  solemnity  of  death.  The 
'"lay  which  in  life  had  lacked  so  much  in  its 
lack  of  a  beautiful  soul  to  light  it  from  within, 
found  its  level  in  death.  The  worthless  soul 
was  gone,  and  the  physical  perfection  that 
remained  had  lost  its  only  blemish.  The  har- 
mony of  prop*tion,  the  exquisitely  modelled 
features,  the  charms  of  detail,  all  were  left, 
and  the  face  which  James  Conyers  carried  to 
the  grave  was  handsomer  than  that  which  had 
smiled  insolent  defiance  upon  the  world  in  the  ! 
trainer's  lifetime. 

John  Mellish  stood  for  some  minutes  look- 
ing gravely  at  that  marble  face. 

"Poor  fellow!"  thought  the  generous-heart- 
ed young  squire  ;  "  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  die 
so  young.     I  wish  he  had  never  come  here. 


I  wish  Lolly  had  confided  in  me,  and  let  me 
made  a  bargain  with  this  man  to  stop  away 
and  keep  her  secret.  Her  secret !  her  father's 
secret  more  likely.  What  secret  could  she 
have  had  that  a  groom  was  likely  to  discover? 
It  may  have  been  some  mercantile  business, 
some  commercial  transaction  of  Archibald 
Floyd's,  by  which  the  old  man  fell  into  his 
servant's  power.  It  would  be  only  like  my 
glorious  Aurora  to  take  the  burden  upon  her 
own  shoulders,  and  to  bear  it  bravely  through 
every  trial." 

It  was  thus  that  John  Mellish  had  often 
reasoned  upon  the  mystery  which  divided  him 
from  his  wife.  He  could  not  bear  to  impute 
even  the  shadow  of  evil  to  her.  He  could  not 
endure  to  think  of  her  as  a  poor,  helpless 
woman,  entrapped  into  the  power  of  a  mean- 
spirited  hireling,  who  was  only  too  willing  to 
make  his  market  out  of  her  secrets.  He  could 
not  tolerate  such  an  idea  as  this;  and  he 
sacrificed  poor  Archibald  Floyd's  commercial 
integrity  for  the  preservation  of  Aurora's 
womanly  dignity.  Ah!  how  weak  and  im- 
perfect a  passion  is  this  boundless  love!  How 
ready  to  sacrifice  others  for  that  one  loved 
object,  which  must  be  kept  spotless  in  our  im- 
aginations, though  a  hecatomb  of  her  fellow- 
creatures  are  to  be  blackened  and  befouled 
for  her  justification.  If  Othello  could  have 
established  Desderaona's  purity  by  the  sacri- 
fice of  the  reputation  of  every  lady  in  Cyprus, 
do  you  think  he  would  have  spared  the  fair 
inhabitants  of  the  friendly  isle?  No;  he 
would  have  branded  every  one  of  them  with 
infamy,  if  he  could,  by  so  doing,  have  rehabil- 
itated the  wife  he  loved.  John  Mellish  would 
not  think  ill  of  his  wife.  He  resolutely  shut 
his  eyes  to  all  damning  evidence.  He  clung 
with  a  desperate  tenacity  to  his  belief  in  her 
purity,  and  only  clung  the  more  tenaciously 
as  the  proofs  against  her  became  more  numer- 
ous. 

The  inquest  was  held  at  a  roadside  inn 
within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  north  gates — 
a  quiet  little  place,  only  frequented  on  mar- 
ket-days by  the  country  people  going  back- 
ward and  forward  between  Doncaster  and  the 
villages  beyond  Meslingham.  The  coroner 
and  his  jury  sat  in  a  long  bare  room,  in  which 
the  frequenters  of  the  Golden  Lion  were  wont 
to  play  bowls  in  wet  weather.  The  surgeon, 
Steeve  Hargraves,  Jarvis,  the  young  man 
from  the  Reindeer,  William  Dork,  the  consta- 
ble, and  Mr.  Mellish  were  the  only  witnesses 
called;  but  Colonel  Maddison  and  Mr.  Loft- 
house  were  both  present  during  the  brief  pro- 
ceedings. 

The  inquiry  into  the  circumstances  of  the 
trainer's  death  occupied  a  very  short  time. 
Nothing  was  elicited  by  the  brief  examination 
of  the  witnesses  which  in  any  way  led  to  the 
elucidation  of  the  mystery.  John  Mellish  was 
the  last  person  interrogated,  and  he  answered 
the  questions  put  to  him  Avith  prompt  decision. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


1§& 


There  was  one  inquiry,  however,  which  he 
was  unable  to  answer,  althouoh  it  was  a  very 
simple  one.  Mr.  Hay  ward,  the  coroner,  anx- 
ious to  discover  so  much  of  the  liistor}-^  of  the 
dead  man  as  might  lead  eventually  to  the 
discovery  of  his  murderer,  asked  Mr.  Mellish 
if  his  trainer  had  been  a  bachelor  or  a  married 
man. 

"  I  really  can  not  answer  that  question," 
said  John  ;  "  I  .should  imagine  that  he  was  a 
sini^le  man,  as  neither  he  nor  Mr.  Pastern 
told  me  anything  to  tlie  contraiy.  Had  he 
been  married,  he  would  have  brought  hi.s  wife 
with  him,  I  should  suppose.  My  trainer, 
Langley,  was  married  when  he  entered  my 
service,  and  his  wife  and  children  have  occu- 
pied the  premises  over  my  stables  for  some 
years." 

"  You  infer,  then,  that  James  Conyers  was 
unmarried  ?" 

"  Most  decidedly.'' 

"And  it  Is  your  opinion  that  he  had  made 
no  enemies  in  the  neighborhood?"' 

"It  is  next  to  impcssible  that  he  could  have 
done  so." 

"  To  what  cause,  then,  do  you  attribute  his 
death  ?" 

''  To  an  unhappy  accident.  I  can  account 
for  it  in  no  other  way.  The  path  through  the 
wood  is  used  as  a  public  thoroughfare,  and  the 
whole  of  the  plantation  is  known  to  be  infest- 
ed with  poachers.  It  was  past  ten  o'clock  at 
i\ight  when  tlie  shot  was  heard.  I  should  im- 
agine that  it  was  fired  by  a  poacher,  whose 
eyes  deceived  him  in  the  shadowy  light." 

Tlie  coroner  sliook  his  head.  "You  forget, 
Mr.  IMellish,"  he  said,  "that  the  cause  of  death 
was  not  an  ordinary  gunshot  wound.  The 
shot  heard  was  the  report  of  a  pistol,  and  the 
deceased  was  killed  by  a  pistol-l)ullet." 

John  Mellish  was  silent.  He  had  spoken  in 
good  faith  as  to  his  impression  respecting  the 
cause  of  the  trainer's  death.  In  the  press  and 
hurry,  the  horror  and  confusion  of  the  two  last 
days,  the  smaller  details  of  the  awful  event 
had  escaped  his  memory. 

"  Do  you  know  any  one  among  your  ser- 
vants, Mr.  Mellish,''  asked  the  coroner, "whom 
you  would  consider  likely  to  commit  an  act  of 
violence  of  this  kind  ?  Have  you  any  one  of 
an  especially  vindictive  character  in  your 
household  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  John,  decisively;  "I  can 
answer  for  my  servants  as  I  would  for  myself. 
They  wore  all  strangers  to  this  man.  VVhat 
motive  could  they  possibly  have  had  to  seek 
his  death  ?" 

Mr  Hayward  rubbed  his  chin,  and  shook 
his  head  reflectively.    ' 

"  There  Avas  this  superannuated  trainer 
whom  you  spoke  of  just  now,  Mr.  Mellish," 
he  .said.  "  I  am  well  aware  that  the  post  of 
trainer  in  your  stables  is  rather  a  good  thing. 
A  man  may  save  a  good  deal  of  money  out  of 
his  wages  and  perquisites  with  such  a  master 


as  you.  This  former  trainer  may  not  have 
liked  being  superseded  by  the  deceased.  He 
may  have  felt  some  animu.^  toward  his  succes- 
sor." 

"  Langley  !"  cried  John  Mellish  ;  "  he  is  as 
good  a  fellow  as  ever  breathed.  He  was  not 
superseded ;  he  resigned  the  active  part  of 
his  work  at  his  own  wish,  and  he  retained  his 
full  wages  by  mine.  The  i)Oor  fellow  has  beea 
confined  to  his  bed  for  the  Last  week." 

"  Humph !"  muttered  the  coroner.  "  Then 
you  can  throw  no  light  upon  this  business,  Mr. 
Mellish  ?" 

"  None  whatever.  I  have  written  to  Mr. 
Pastern,  in  whose  stables  the  deceased  was 
employed,  telling  him  of  the  circumstances  of 
the  trainer's  death,  and  begging  him  to  for- 
ward the  information  to  any  relative  of  the 
murdered  man.  I  expect  an  answer  by  to- 
morrow's post,  and  I  shall  be  happy  to  submit 
that  answer  to  you." 

Prior  to  the  examination  of  the  witnesses, 
the  jurymen  had  been  conducted  to  the  north 
lodge,  where  they  had  beheld  the  mortal  re- 
mains of  James  Conyei-s.  Mr.  Morton  had 
accompanied  them,  and  had  endeavored  to 
explain  to  them  the  direction  which  the  bul- 
let had  taken,  and  the  manner  in  which,  ac- 
cording to  his  own  idea,  the  shot  must  have 
been  firvd.  The  jurymen  who  had  been  ira- 
panneled  to  dei-ide  upon  this  awful  question 
were  simple  agriculturists  and  petty  trades- 
men, who  grudged  the  day's  lost  labor,  and 
who  were  ready  to  accept  any  solution  of  the 
mystery  which  might  be  suggested  to  them  by 
the  coroner.  They  hurried  back  to  the  (rold- 
en  Lion,  listened  deferentially  to  the  evidence 
and  to  Mr.  Hayward's  address,  retired  to  an 
adjoining  apartment,  where  they  remained  in 
consultation  for  the  space  of  about  five  min- 
utes, and  whence  they  emerged  with  a  very 
rambling  form  of  decision,  which  Mr.  Hay- 
ward  reduced  into  a  verdict  of  wilful  murder 
against  some  {person  or  persons  unknown. 

Very  little  had  been  said  about  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  seafaring  man  who  had 
carried  the  tidings  of  the  murder  to  Mr.  Mel- 
lish's  house.  Nobody  for  a  moment  imagined 
that  the  evidence  of  this  missing  witness 
might  have  thrown  some  ray  of  light  upon 
the  mystery  of  the  trainer's  death.  The  sea- 
faring man  had  been  engaged  in  convei-sation 
with  the  young  man  from  tlie  Reindeer  at  the 
time  when  the  shot  was  fired  ;  he  was  there- 
fore not  the  actual  murderer;  and,  strangely 
significant  as  his  hurried  Hight  might  have 
been  to  the  acute  intelligence  of  a  well-train- 
ed metropolitan  police  of!i<,er,  no  one  among 
the  rustic  officials  present  at  the  inquest  at- 
tached any  importance  to  the  circumstance. 
Nor  had  Aurora's  name  been  once  mentioned 
during  the  brief  proceidings  Nothing  had 
transpired  which  in  any  wav  revealed  her 
previous  acquuintance  with  James  Conyers; 
and  Joh:i  Mellish  drew  a  deep  breath,  a  long 


136 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


sigh  of  reliof,  as  he  left  the  (Jolden  Lion  and 
walked  homeward.  Colonel  Maddison,  Mr. 
Lofthouse,  and  two  or  three  other  gentlemen 
lingered  on  the  threshold  of  the  little  inn  talk- 
ing to  Mr.  Ha3'ward,  the  coroner. 

The  inquest  was  terminated;  the  business 
was  settled ;  and  the  mortal  remains  of  James 
Con)'ers  could  be  carried  to  the  grave  at  the 
pleasure  of  his  late  employer.  All  was  over. 
The  mystery  of  deatli  and  the  secrets  of  life 
would  be  buried  peacefully  in  the  grave  of 
the  murdcrffd  man,  and  John  Mellish  was 
free  to  carry  his  wife  awaj^  with  him  whither- 
soever he  would.  Free,  have  1  said  V  No ; 
for  ever  and  for  ever  the  shadow  of  that  by- 
gone mystery  would  hang  like  a  funeral  pall 
between  himself  and  the  woman  he  loved; 
for  ever  and  for  ever  the  recollection  of  that 
ghastly  undiscovered  problem  would  haunt 
him  in  sleeping  and  in  waking,  in  the  sunlight 
and  in  the  darkness.  His  nobler  nature, 
triumphing  again  and  again  over  the  subtle 
influences  of  damning  suggestion.s  and  doubt- 
ful facts,  was  again  and  again  shaken,  although 
never  quite  defeated.  He  fought  the  battle 
bravely,  though  it  was  a  very  hard  one,  and 
it  was  to  endure,  perhaps,  to  the  end  of  time. 
That  voiceless  argument  was  for  ever  to  be 
ari'ued  ;  the  spirits  of  Faith  and  Infidelity 
were  for  ever  to  be  warring  with  each  other 
in  that  tortured  breast  until  the  end  of  life — 
until  he  died,  perhaps,  with  his  head  lying 
upon  his  wife's  bosom,  with  his  cheek  fanned 
by  her  warm  breatli,  but  ignorant  to  the  very 
last  of  the  real  nature  of  that  dark  something, 
that  nameless  and  formless  horror  with  which 
he  had  wrestled  so  patiently  and  so  long. 

"I  '11  take  her  away  with  me,'  he  thought; 
»*  and  when  we  are  divided  by  a  thousand 
miles  of  blue  water  from  the  scene  of  her 
secret,  I  will  fall  on  my  knees  before  her,  and 
beseech  her  to  confide  in  me." 

He  passed  by  the  north  lodge  with  a  shud- 
der, and  walked  straight  along,  the  high-road 
toward  the  principal  entrance  of  the  Park. 
He  was  close  to  tlie  gates  when  he  heard  a 
voice — a  strange,  suppressed  voice,  calling 
feebly  to  him  to  stop.  He  turned  round  and 
saw  the  softy  making  his  way  toward  him 
with  a  slow,  shambling  run.  Of  all  human 
beings,  except  perliaps  that  one  who  now  lay 
cold  and  motionless  in  the  darkened  chamber 
at  the  north  lodge,  tliis  Steeve  Hargraves  was 
the  last  whom  Mr.  Mellish  cared  to  see.  He 
turned  with  an  angry  frown  upon  the  softy, 
who  was  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  pale 
face  with  the  ragged  end  of  his  neck-handker- 
chief, and  panting  hoarsely. 

"What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  John.  "What 
do  you  want  with  me  ?" 

"  It  's  th'  coroner,"  gasped  Stephen  Har- 
graves-:-" th'  coroner  and  Mr.  Ivoflhouse,  th' 
parson  —  they  want  to  speak  to  ye,  sir,  oop  at 
the  Loi-on." 

"What  about?" 


Steeve  Hargraves  gave  a  ghastly  grin. 

"  I  doant  know,  sir,"  he  whispered.  "  It  's 
hardly  loikely  they  'd  tell  me.  There  's  sum- 
mat  oop,  though,  I  '11  lay,  for  Mr.  Lofthouse 
was  as  whoite  as  ashes,  and  seemed  strangely 
oopset  about  summat.  Would  you  be.  pleased 
to  step  oop,  and  speak  to  'un  directly,  sir? 
that  was  my  message."' 

"Yes,  yes,  I  '11  go,"  answered  John,  ab- 
sently. 

He  had  taken  his  hat  off,  and  was  passing 
his  hand  over  his  hot  forehead  in  a  half-be- 
wildered manner.  He  turned  his  back  upon 
the  sofly,  and  walked  rapidly  away,  retracing 
his  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  roadside  inn. 

Stephen  Hargraves  stood  staring  after  him 
until  he  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  turned,  and 
walked  on  slowly  toward  the  turnstile  leading 
into  the  wood. 

"/  know  what  they  've  found,"  he  muttered, 
"  and  /  know  what  they  want  with  him.  He 
'11  be  some  time  oop  there,  so  I  'II  slip  across 
the  wood  and  tell  her.  Yes"  —  he  paused, 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  laughing  a  slow,  voice- 
less laugh,  which  distorted  his  ugly  face,  and 
made  him  horrible  to  look  upon  —  yes,  it  will 
be  nuts  for  me  to  tell  her." 


chaptp:r  xxvil 

"  MY  WIFE  !    MY    WIFE  !        WHAT    WIFE  ?        I 
HAVE    NO    WIFE." 

The  Golden  Lion  had  reassumed  its  accus- 
tomed air  of  rustic  trantpiillity  when  John 
Mellish  returned  to  it.  The  jurymen  had 
gone  back  to  their  different  avocations,  glad 
to  have  finished  the  business  so  easily  ;  the 
villagers,  who  had  hung  about  the  inn  to  hear 
what  they  could  of  the  proceedings,  were  all 
dispersed ;  and  the  landlord  was  eating  his 
dinner,  with  his  wife  and  family,  in  the  com- 
fortable little  bai'-parlor.  He  put  down  his 
knife  and  fork  as  John  entered  the  sanded 
bar,  and  left  his  meal  to  receiye  such  a  distin- 
guished visitor. 

"  Mr.  Hayward  and  Mr.  Lofthouse  are  in 
the  coffee  -  room,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Will  you 
please  to  step  this  way  ?" 

He  opened  the  door  of  a  carpeted  room, 
furnished  with  shining  mahogany  tables,  and 
adorned  by  half  a  dozen  gaudily  colored  prints 
of  the  Doncaster  meetings,  the  great  match 
between  Voltigeur  and  Flying  Dutchman, 
and  other  events  which  had  won  celebrity  for 
the  northern  race-course.  The  coroner  was 
sitting  at  tiie  bottom  of  one  of  the  long  tables, 
with  Mr.  Lofthouse  standing  near  him.  Wil- 
liam Dork,  the  Meslingham  constable,  stood 
near  the  door,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
with  rather  an  alarmed  expression  dimiy  visi- 
ble in  his  ruddy  face.  Mr.  Hayward  and  Mr. 
Lofthouse  were  both  very  pale. 

One  rapid  glance  was  enough  to  show  all 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


137 


this  to  John  Mellish  —  enough  to  show  him 
this,  and  something  more  :  a  basin  of  blood- 
stained water  before  the  coroner,  and  an  ob- 
long piece  of  wet  paper,  which  lay  under  Mr. 
Hay  ward's  clenched  hand. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Why  did  you  send 
for  me  ?"  he  asked. 

Bewildered  and  alarmed  as  he  had  been  by 
the  messa;L!:e  wliich  had  summonc<l  him  hur- 
riedly back  to  the  inn,  hf  was  still  more  so  by 
the  confusion  evident  in  tiie  coroner's  manner 
a.s  he  answered  this  question. 

"  Pray  sit  down,  Mr.  Mellish,'  he  said.  "I — 
I  —  ^ent  for  you  —  at —  the  — advice  of  Mr. 
Lofthouse,  who — who,  as  a  clcrgyuian  and  a 
family  man,  thou<xht  it  incumhent  upon  me — " 

Reginald  Loftliouse  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
coroner's  arm  with  a  warning  gesture.  Mr. 
Ilayward  stopped  for  a  moment,  cleared  his 
throat,  and  then  continued  .speaking,  but  in 
an  altered  tone. 

"  I  have  iiad  occasion  to  reprimand  William 
Dork  for  a  breach  of  duty,  which,  though  I 
am  aware  it  may  have  btn-n,  as  he  says,  pure- 
ly unintentional  and  accidental — " 

"  It  was  indeed,  sir,"  muttered  the  consta- 
ble, submissively.     "  If  I  'd  ha'  know'd — " 

"  Tlie  fact  is,' Mr.  Mellish,  that  on  the  night 
of  the  murder,  Dork,  in  examining  the  clothes 
of  the  deceased,  discovered  a  paper,  whicli 
had  been  concealed  by  the  unha])py  man  be- 
tween the  outer  material  and  the  lining  of  his 
waistcoat.  This  paper  was  so  stained  by  the 
blood  in  which  tlie  breast  of  the  waistcoat 
was  absolutely  saturated  that  Dork  was  un- 
able to  deciplier  a  word  of  its  contents.  He 
therefore  was([uite  unaware  of  the  importance 
of  the  paper;  and,  in  tlie  hurry  and  confu- 
sion consccpu'nt  on  the  very  hard  duty  he  has 
done  for  the  last  two  days,  he  forgot  to  pi-oduce 
it  at  the  inquest.  He  had  occasion  to  make 
bome  memorandum  in  his  pocket-book  almost 
immediately  after  the  verdict  had  been  given, 
and  tliist-iirumstance  recalled  to  his  iwind  the 
existence  of  the  paper.  He  came  immediate- 
ly to  me,  and  consulted  me  upon  this  very 
awkward  business.  I  examined  the  document, 
washed  away  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
stains  which  had  rendered  it  illegible,  and 
have  contrivcil  to  decipher  the  L'reater  part 
of  it.' 

"  Tlie  document  is  of  s(jme  importance, 
then  ?"  John  asked. 

He  sat  at  a  little  dist;ince  from  the  table, 
with  his  head  bent,  and  his  fingei's  rattling 
nervously  against  the  side  of  his  chair.  He 
chafed  horribly  at  the  coroner's  pompons 
slowness.  He  suffered  an  agony  of  fear  and 
bewilderment.  Why  had  they  called  him 
back  ?  What  was  this  paper  '.■'  How  roxUtJ  it 
concern  him  V 

•'Yes,"  Mr.  Hayward  answered,"  the  docu- 
ment is  certainly  .in  important  one.  I  have 
shown  it  to  Mr.  Lofthouse.  for  the  purpose  of 
taking  his  advice  upon  tlie  .subject.     I  have 


not  shown  it  to  Dork ;  but  I  detained  Dork  in 
order  that  you  may  hear  from  him  how  and 
where  the"  paper  was  found,  and  why  it  was 
not  produced  at  the  inquest." 

"  Why  .should  I  ask  any  questions  upon  the 
subject  V"  cried  John,  lifting  his  head  sudden- 
ly, and  looking  from  the  eoioner  to  the  clergy- 
man.    "  How  should  this  ])aper  concern  me?" 

"  I  regret  to  .say  that  it  does  concern  you 
very  materially,  Mr.  Mellish."  the  rector  an- 
swered, gently. 

John's  angry  spirit  revolted  against  that 
gentleness.  What  right  had  they  to  speak  to 
him  like  this?  Why  did  they  look  at  him 
with  those  grave,  pitying  faces?  Why  did 
they  drop  their  voices  to  that  horrible  tone  in 
which  the  bearers  of  i-vW  tidings  ])ave  their 
way  to  the  announcement,  of  some  overwhelm- 
ing calamity  ? 

"Let  me  see  this  paper,  then,  if  it  concerns 
me,"  John  said,  very  carelessly.  "  Oh,  my 
God !"'  he  thought,  "  what  is  this  misery  that 
is  coming  upon  me  ?  What  is  this  hideous 
avalanche  of  trouble  which  is  slowly  descend- 
ing to  crush  me  ?" 

"  You  do  not  wish  to  hear  anything  from 
Dork  ?"  asked  the  coroner. 

"  No,  no  !"  ci'ied  John,  savagely.  "  I  only 
want  to  isee  that  paper."  He  jjoiutrd  as  he 
spoke  to  the  wet  and  blood-stjuneil  document 
under  Mr.  Hayward's  hand. 

"  You  may  go,  then,  Dork,"  the  coroner 
said,  (piietly,  "  and  be  sure  you  do  not  men- 
tion this  busines.s  to  any  one.  It  is  a  matter 
of  purely  private  interest,  and  has  no  refer- 
ence to  the  murder.     You  will  rememljer  ?" 

"  Y'^es,  sir." 

Tlie  (nonstable  bowed  respectfully  V*  the 
three  gentlemen,  and  left  the  room.  He  was 
very  glad  to  be  so  well  out  of  the  business. 

"  They  need  n"t  have  called  me,"  he  thought 
(to  call,  in  the  Northern  /<a/oi.s-,  is  to  scold,  to 
abuse).  "  They  neet]  n't  have  .said  it  was 
repri  —  wat  "s  its  name  ? — to  ket;])  the  paper. 
I  might  have  burnt  it  if  I  liked,  and  said 
naught  about  it." 

"Now,"  said  John,  rising  and  walking  to 
the  t.able  as  the  door  closed  upon  the  constable, 
"now,  then,  Mr.  Hayward,  let  me  see  this 
paper.  If  it  concerns  me,  or  any  one  con- 
nected with  me,  I  have  a  right  to  m-e  it." 

"  A  right  which  I  will  not  dispute,"  the 
coroner  answered,  gravely,  as  he  handed  the 
blood-stained  document  to  Mr.  Mellish.  "  I 
only  beg  you  to  belii've  in  my  lieart-.'elt  syn>- 
pathy  with  you  in  this — " 

"  Let  nie  alone !"  cried  J.^lin,  waving  the 
speaker  away  from  him  as  he  snatched  the 
paj)er  froni  his  hand  ;  "  lit  mo  alone  !  Can't 
you  see  that  I  'm  nearly  mad  ?" 

He  walked  to  the  window,  and  with  his 
back  to  the  coroner  and  Mr.  Lofthouse,  ex- 
amined the  blotched  and  blottefj  dot mnent  in 
hik  iiands.  He  stared  for  a  long  time  at  thow 
blurred  and  hall-illegible  lines  before  he  b€- 


138 


AUKOllA  FLOYD. 


came  aware  of  tlieir  full  meaning.  Bnt  at 
last,  at  last,  the  signification  of  that  miserable 
paper  grew  clear  to  him,  and  with  a  loud  cry 
of  anguish  he  di-opped  into  the  chair  from 
which  he  had  risen,  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  strong  right  hand.  He  held  the  paper  in 
the  left,  crumpled  and  crushed  by  the  convul- 
sive pres.-^ure  of  his  grasp. 

"My  God  1"  he  ejaculated,  after  that  fir.-^t 
cry  of  anguish,  "my  God!  I  never  thought  of 
this — I  never  could  have  imagined  this." 

Neither  the  coroner  nor  the  clersyman 
spoke.  What  could  they  say  to  him.  "  Sym- 
pathetic words  could  have  no  power  to  lessen 
such  a  grief  as  this  ;  they  would  only  fret  and 
harass  the  strong  man  in  his  agony ;  it  was 
better  to  obey  him ;  it  was  far  better  to  let 
him  alone. 

He  ro.se  at  last,  after  a  silence  that  seemed 
long  to  the  spectators  of  his  grief. 

'•  Gentlemen."  he  said,  in  a  loud,  resolute 
voice  that  resounded  through  the  little  room, 
"  I  give  you  my  solemn  word  of  honor  that 
■when  Archibald  Floyd's  daughter  married 
me,  she  believed  this  man,  James  Conycrs,  to 
be  dead." 

He  struck  his  clenched  fist  upon  the  table, 
and  looked  with  ])roud  defiance  at  the  two 
men.  Then,  with  his  left  hand,  the  hand 
that  grasped  tlie  blood-stained  paper,  thrust 
into  his  breast,  he  walked  out  of  the  room. 
He  walked  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the 
house,  but  not  homeward.  A  grassy  lane  op- 
posite the  Golden  Lion  led  away  to  a  great 
waste  of  brown  turf  called  Harper's  Common. 
John  Mellish  walked  slowly  along  this  lane, 
and  out  upon  this  (|uiet  common-land,  lonely 
even  in  the  broad  summer  daylight.  As  he 
closed  the  five-barred  gate  at  the  end  of  the 
lane,  and  emerged  upon  the  open  waste,  he 
seemed  to  shut  the  door  of  the  world  that  lay 
behind  him,  and  to  stand  alone  with  his  great 
gi-ief  under  the  low,  sunless  summer  sky.  The 
dreary  scene  before  him,  and  the  gray^atinos- 
pherc  above  his  head,  seemed  in  strange  har- 
mony with  his  grief.  The  reedy  water-pools, 
unbroken  by  a  ripple ;  the  barren  verdure, 
burnt  a  dull  grayish  brown  by  the  summer 
sun  ;  the  blooniless  heather,  and  the  flowerless 
rushes — all  things  upon  which  he  looked  took 
a  di.smal  coloring  from  his  own  desolation, 
and  seemed  to  inukc  him  the  more  desolate. 
The  spoiled  child  of  fortune  —  the  popular 
young  squire,  who  had  never  been  contra- 
dicted in  nearly  two-and-thirty  years — the 
happy  husband,  whose  pride  in  his  wife  had 
touched  upon  that  narrow  boundary -line 
which  separates  the  sublime  from  the  ridicu- 
lous— ah !  whither  had  they  fled,  all  these 
shadows  of  the  happy  days  that  were  gone  ? 
They  had  vanished  away ;  they  had  fallen 
into  the  black  gulf  of  the  cruel  past.  The 
monster  who  devours  his  children  had  taken 
back  these  happy  ones,  and  a  desolate  man 
was  left  in  their  stead  —  a  desolate  man,  who 


looked  at  a  broad  ditch  and  a  rushy  bank 
a  few  j)aces  from  where  he  stood,  and  thought, 
"  Was  it  I  who  leaped  that  dike  a  month  ago 
to  gather  forget-me-nots  for  my  wife  ?' 

He  asked  himself  that  question,  reader, 
which  we  must  all  ask  ourselves  sometimes. 
AVas  he  really  that  creature  of  the  irrevocable 
past?  Even  as  I  write  this  I  can  see  that 
common-land  of  which  I  write — the  low  skv, 
the  sunbin-nt  grass,  the  reedy  water-pools, 
the  flat  landscape  stretching  far  away  on 
every  side  to  region.s  that  are  strange  to  me. 
I  can  recall  every  object  in  that  simple 
scene  —  the  atmosphere  of  the  sunless  day, 
the  sounds  in  the  soft  summer  air,  the  voices 
of  the  people  near  me ;  I  can  recall  every- 
thing except  —  myself.  This  miserable  ego  is 
the  one  thing  that  I  can  not  bring  back — the 
one  thing  that  seems  strange  to  me — the  one 
thing  that  I  can  scarcely  believe  in.  If  I  went 
back  to  that  Northern  common-land  to-mor- 
row, I  should  recognize  every  hillock,  every 
scrap  of  furze,  or  patch  of  heather.  The  few 
years  that  have  gone  by  since  I  saw  it  will 
have  made  a  scarcely  perceptible  difference 
in  the  features  of  the  familiar  place.  The 
slow  changes  of  Nature,  immutable  in  her 
harmonious  law,  will  have  done  their  work 
according  to  that  unalterable  law  ;  but  this 
wretched  me  has  undergone  so  complete  a 
change  that,  if  you  could  bring  me  back  that 
alter  eyo  of  the  past,  I  should  be  unable  to 
recognize  the  strange  creature  ;  and  yet  it  is 
by  no  volcanic  shocks,  no  rending  asunder  of 
rocky  masses,  no  great  convulsions,  or  terrific 
agonies  of  Nature,  that  the  change  has  come 
about;  it  is  rather  by  a  slow,  monotonous 
wearing  away  of  salient  points,  an  impercep- 
tible adulteration  of  this  or  that  constituent 
part,  an  addition  here,  and  a  subtraction 
there,  that  the  transformation  takes  place.  It 
is  hard  to  make  a  man  believe  in  the  physiolo- 
gists, who  declare  that  the  hand  which  uses 
his  pen  to-day  is  not  the  same  hand  that 
guided  the  quill  with  which  he  wrote  seven 
years  ago.  He  finds  it  very  difficult  to  be- 
lieve this;  but  let  him  take  out  of  some 
forgotten  writing-desk,  thrust  into  a  corner  of 
his  lumber-room,  those  letters  which  he  wrote 
seven  years  ago,  and  which  were  afterward 
returned  to  him  by  the  lad}-  to  whom  they 
were  addressed,  and  the  question  which  he 
will  ask  himself,  as  he  reads  the  faded  lines, 
will  most  surely  be,  "  Was  it  I  who  wrote  this 
bosh  ?  Was  it  I  who  called  a  lady  with  white 
eyelashes  '  the  guiding  star  of  a  lonely  life  ?' 
Was  it  I  who  was  '  inexpres-sibly  miserable, 
with  one  5,  and  looked  '  forward  with  unut- 
terable anxiety  to  the  party  in  Onslow  Square, 
at  which  I  once  more  should  look  into  those 
soft  blue  eyes  ?'  What  party  in  Onslow 
Square  ?  Non  tni  recordo.  '  Those  soft  blue 
eyes'  were  garnished  with  white  lashes,  and 
the  lady  to  whom  the  letters  were  written 
jilted  me  to  marry  a  rich  soap-boiler."     Even 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


139 


the  law   takes   cotxnizance  of  this  wouderfnl  | 
transformation.     The  debt  wliieh  Smith  (ton-  i 
tracts  in  1850  it;  null  and  void  in  1857.     The  i 
Smitli  of  '50  may  have  been  an  extrava«jant  i 
rogue;  the  Smith  of  '57   niay  be  a  eon.scien- , 
tious  man,  wlio  would  not  eheat  hiti  ireditors  , 
of  a  farthing.      Shall    Smith   the    .seeond    be  i 
called   upon   to  |>ay   the   debts  of  Smith  the  i 
first  ?     I   leave  that  tjuestion  to  Smith's  eon-  ' 
seienee  and  the  metaphysieians.     Snndy  tiie  ( 
same  law  should  hold  good  in  breach  of  prom- 
ise of  marriage.     Smith   the    first   may   have 
adored   Miss  Brown ;  Smit]\  the  seeon<l  may 
detest  her.     Shall    Smith  of  185  7    be   called 
upon  to  perform  the  eoi\tra(.t  entered  into  by 
that  other  Smith  of  IBSOV    The  French  crim- 
inal   law   goes   still   farther.     The   murderer 
whose   crime   remains    unsuspected    for    ten 
years   can   laugh   at    the   police  officers   who 
discover    his  guilt  in    the   eleventh.     Surely 
this   must   be  because  the  real   murderer   is 
no  longer  amenable  to  justice — because  the 
hand  that  struck  the  blow,  and  the  l)rain  that 
j)lotted  the  ileed,  are  alike  e.xtinct. 

Poor  John  Mellish,  with  the  world  of  the 
past  crund)led  at  his  feet,  looked  out  at  the 
blank  future,  and  mourned  for  the  people 
wlio  »vere  dead  and  gone. 

He  llung  himself  at  full  length  upon  the 
stunted  grass,  and,  taking  the  crumpled  paper 
from  his  breast,  unfohled  it  and  smoothed 
it  out  before  him. 

It  was  a  certificate  of  marriage  —  the  cer- 
tificate of  a  marriage  which  had  been  solem- 
nized at  the  parish  tdiurch  of  Dover  upon  the 
2d  of  July,  1856,  between  James  Conyers, 
bachelor,  rougii- rider,  of  London,  son  of 
Joseph  C'onyers,  stage-coaidiman,  and  Susan, 
his  wife,  and  Aurora  Floyd.  si)instcr,  daugh- 
ter of  Archibald  Floyd,  bankvrr.  ot'  Felden 
Woods,  Kent. 


c  II  A  r  T  i:  R    xxyjii. 

auuoka"s   FI.ir.HT. 

Mrs.  Mellish  sat  in  her  husband's  room  on 
the  morning  of  tht;  in(juest.  among  the  guns 
and  fishing-rods,  the  riding-boots  and  hunting- 
whips,  and  ail  the  paraphernalia  of  .sports- 
manship. She  sat  in  a  capacious  wicker- 
work  arm-chair  close  to  the  open  window, 
with  her  head  lying  back  upon  the  <diintz- 
covered  cushions,  and  her  eyes  wandering  f;tr 
away  across  the  lawn  and  flower-beds  toward 
the  winding  pathway  by  whiidi  it  was  likely 
John  Mellish  would  return  from  tiie  inrjuest 
at  the  GoI<Ien  Lion. 

She  had  opeidy  defied  Mrs.  IVjwdl,  and 
had  locked  the  dfX)r  of  thi.i  quiet  chamber 
ujMjn  that  lady's  8t<Tootyped  civilities  and 
sympathetic  simperings.  She  iiad  loiked  tln^ 
«loor  upon  the  outer  world,  and  she  sat  alone 
in  the  plea.sant  window,  the  full-blown  roses 


showering  their  scented  petals  upon  her  lap 
with  every  breath  of  the  summer  breeze,  and 
the  butterflies  hovering  about  her  The  old 
mastiff  sat  by  her  side,  with  his  heavy  head 
lying  on  her  lap,  and  his  big  dim  eyes  lifted 
to  her  face.  She  sat  alone,  I  have  said  ;  but 
Heaven  knows  she  was  not  companionless. 
lilack  care  and  corroding  anxi(!ty  kept  her 
faithful  company,  and  would  not  budge  from 
her  side.  What  companions  are  so  adhesive 
as  trouble  and  sorrow?  what  associates  so 
tenacious,  what  friends  so  wat<?hful  and  un- 
tiring? This  wretched  girl  stood  alone  in  the 
centre  of  a  sea  of  troubles,  fearful  to  stretch 
out  her  hands  to  those  who  loved  her,  lest  she 
should  drag  them  into  that  ocean  which  was 
rising  to  overwhelm  her. 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  siilFer  alone,"  .she  thought 
—  "if  I  could  sulFcr  all  this  misery  alone,  I 
think  I  would  go  through  it  to  the  last  without 
complaining;  but  the  shame,  the  degradation, 
the  angui.sh  will  come  upon  others  more  heavi- 
ly than  upon  me.  What  will  they  not  sulTer? 
what  will  they  not  endure  if  the  wicked  mad- 
ness of  my  youth  should  become  known  to 
the  world  ?" 

Those  others  of  whose  possible  grief  and 
shame  she  thought  with  such  cruel  torture 
were  her  father  and  John  Mellish.  Tier  love 
for  her  husband  had  not  lessened  by  one  iota 
her  love  for  that  indulgent  father  on  whom 
the  folly  of  her  girlhood  had  brought  such  bit- 
ter suffering.  Her  generous  heart  was  wide 
enough  for  both.  She  had  acknowledged 
no  "  divided  duty,"  and  would  have  repudi- 
ated any  encroachment  of  the  new  aflfetttion 
upon  the  old.  The  great  river  of  her  love 
wideneil  into  an  ocean,  and  embraced  a  n«'w 
nhore  with  its  mighty  tide;  but  tliat  [ar-away 
source  of  childhood,  from  which  aflcclion  fir.st 
sprang  in  its  soft  infantine  purity,  still  gushed 
in  crystal  beauty  from  its  unsullied  spring. 
She  would  perhaps  .scarcely  have  recognized 
the  coldly-measured  afl'ection  of  mad  Lear's 
youngest  daughter — the  afTeclion  which  could 
divide  itself  with  mathematical  precision  be- 
tween father  and  hu.sband.  Surely,  love  is 
too  ])ure  a  senlinunt  to  be  so  weighed  in  the 
balance.  Must  wc  subtract  something  from 
the  original  sum  when  we  are  called  upon  to 
meet  a  new  demand  ?  or  has  not  afreclion 
rather  some  magic  power  by  which  it  can 
double  its  cajiital  at  any  moment  when  there 
is  a  run  upon  the  l»ank  ?  Whi-n  -Mrs.  John 
Anderson  becomes  the  mother  of  six  children, 
she  does  not  say  to  her  hnsV»an<l,  "My  dear 
John,  I  shall  be  compelled  to  rob  yon  of  six- 
tenths  of  my  atfection  in  order  to  provide  for 
the  little  ones.'  No;  the  generous  heart  of 
the  wile  grows  larger  to  meet  the  claims  upon 
the  mother,  as  the  girl's  heart  expantled  with 
the  new  afTcetions  of  the  wife.  Every  pang 
of  priif  which  Auiora  felt  for  her  husf)an<rs 
misery  was  doubled  by  the  image  of  her  fath- 
er's sorrow.     She  could  not  divide  these  two 


140 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


in  her  own  mind.  She  loved  them,  and  was 
sorry  for  them,  with  an  equal  measure  of  love, 
and  sorrow. 

"If — if  the  truth  should  be  discovered  at  this 
inquest,"  she  thought,  "  I  never  can  see  my 
husband  again  ;  I  can  never  look  in  his  face 
any  more.  I  will  run  away  to  the  end  of  the 
world,  and  hide  myself  from  him  for  ever." 

She  had  tried  to  capitulate  with  her  fate ; 
she  had  endeavored  to  escape  the  full  meas- 
ure of  retribution,  and  she  had  failed.  She 
had  done  evil  that  good  might  come  of  it,  in 
the  face  of  that  command  which  says  that  all 
such  evil-doing  shall  be  Ma.sted  sin,  useless 
iniquity.  She  had  deceived  John  Mellish,  in 
the  hope  that  the  veil  of  deception  might 
never  be  rent  in  twain,  that  the  truth  might 
be  undiscovered  to  the  end,  and  the  man  she 
loved  spared  from  cruel  shame  and  grief.  But 
the  fruits  of  that  foolish  seed,  sov/n  long  ago, 
in  the  day  of  her  disobedience,  had  grown  up 
around  her  and  hedged  her  in  upon  every 
side,  and  slie  liad  been  powerless  to  cut  a 
pathway  for  herself  through  the  noxious  weeds 
that  her  own  hands  hail  jjlanted. 

She  sat  with  her  wat'-h  in  her  hand,  and 
her  eyes  wandered  every  now  and  then  from 
the  gardens  before  her  to  the  figures  on  the 
dljil.  John  Mellish  had  left  the  house  at  a 
little  after  nine  o'clock,  and  it  was  now  near- 
ly two.  H(?  had  told  her  that  the  inquest 
would  be  over  in  a  couple  of  hours,  and  that 
he  would  huriT  home  directly  it  was  finished 
and  tell  her  the  result.  What  would  be  the 
result  ot  that  inquest  V  What  inquiries  might 
be  made  V  what  evidence  might,  by  some  un- 
happy accident,  be  produced  to  compromise 
or  to  betray  her?  She  sat  in  a  dull  stupor, 
waiting  to  receive  her  sentence.  What  would 
it  be  V  Condemnation  or  release  V  If  her 
secret  should  escaj)e  detection  —  if  James 
Conyers  should  be  allowed  to  carry  the  story 
of  his  brief  married  life  to  the  grave,  what 
relief,  what  release  for  the  wretched  girl, 
whose  worst  sin  had  been  to  mistake  a  bad 
man  for  a  good  one  —  the  ignorant  trustful- 
ness of  a  child  who  is  ready  to  accept  any 
shabby  pilgrim  for  an  exiled  nobleman  or  a 
prince  in  disguise. 

It  was  halt-past  two  whrn  she  was  startled 
by  the  sound  of  a  shambling  footstep  upon 
the  gravelled  pathway  underneath  the  veran- 
da. The  footstep  slowly  shuffled  on  for  a 
few  paces,  then  paused,  then  shuffled  on 
again ;  and  at  last  a  face  that  she  hated  made 
itself  visible  at  the  angle  of  the  window  oppo- 
site to  that  against  which  she  sat.  It  was  the 
white  face  of  the  softy,  which  was  poked  cau- 
tiously forward  a  few  inches  within  the  win- 
dow-frame. The  mastift"  sprang  up  with  a 
growl,  and  made  as  if  he  would  liave  flown  at 
that  ugly  leering  face,  whi(  h  looked  like  one 
of  the  hideous  decorations  of  a  Gothic  build- 
ing; but  Aurora  caught  the  animal's  collar 
with  both  her  hands,  and  dragged  him  back. 


"■  Be  quiet.  Bow-wow,"  she  said  ;  "  quiet, 
boy,  quiet." 

She  still  held  him  with  one  firm  hand, 
soothing  him  with  the  other.  **  What  do  you 
want  ?"  she  asked,  turning  upon  the  sofly 
with  a  cold,  icy  grandeur  of  disdain,  which 
j  made  her  look  like  Nero's  wife  defying  her 
false  accusers.  "  What  do  you  want  with  me  V 
Your  master  is  dead,  and  you  have  no  longer 
an  excuse  for  coming  here.  You  have  been 
forbidden  the  house  and  the  grounds.  If  vou 
forget  this  another  time,  I  shall  request  Mr. 
Mellish  to  remind  you." 

She  lifted  her  disengaged  hand,  and  laid  it 
upon  the  window-sash;  she  was  going  to  close 
the  window,  when  Stephen  Hargraves  stopped 
her. 

''  Don't  be  in  such  a  hoorry,"  he  said  ;  "  I 
want  to  speak  to  you.  I  've  come  straight 
from  th'  inquest.  I  thought  you  might  want 
to  know  all  about  it.  I  coom  out  o'  friendli- 
ness, though  you  did  pay  into  me  with  th' 
horsewhip." 

Aurora's  heart  beat  tempestuously  against 
her  aching  breast.  Ah!  what  hard  duty  that 
poor  heart  had  done  lately ;  what  icy  bur- 
dens it  had  borne,  what  horrible  oppression  of 
sjcrecy  and  terror  had  weighed  upon  it, 
crushiuij  out  all  hope  and  peace  !  An  agony 
of  suspense  and  dread  convulsed  that  tortured 
heart  as  the  softy  tempted  her  —  tempted  her 
to  ask  him  the  issue  of  the  inquest,  that  she 
might  receive  from  his  lips  the  sentence  of 
life  or  death.  She  little  knew  how  much  of 
her  secret  this  man  had  discovered:  but  she 
knew  that  he  hated  her,  and  that  he  suspect- 
ed enough  to  know  his  power  of  torturing  her. 

She  lifted  her  proud  head,  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  steady  glance  of  defiance.  "  I  have 
told  you  that  your  presence  is  disagreeable," 
she  said.  "  Stand  aside,  and  let  me  shut  the 
window." 

The  softy  grinned  insolently,  and,  hohling 
the  window-frame  with  one  of  his  bioad  hands, 
put  his  head  into  the  room.  Aurora  rose  to 
leave  the  window;  but  lie  laid  the  other  hand 
upon  her  wrist,  which  shnndv  instinctively 
from  contact  with  his  hard,  horny  palm. 

"  I  tell  you  I  've  got  summat  particklar  to 
say  to  you,"  he  whispered.  ■•  You  shall  hear 
all  about  it.  I  was  one  of  th'  witnesses  at  th' 
inquest,  and  I  *ve  been  hangin'  about  ever 
since,  and  I  know  everything." 

Aurora  flung  her  head  back  disdainfully, 
and  tried  to  wrench  her  wrist  from  that  strong 
grasp. 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said.  '•  You  shall  suffer 
for  this  insolence  when  Mr.  Mellish  returns." 

"But  he  won't  be  back  just  yet  a  while," 
said  the  softy,  grinning.  "He's  gone  back 
to  the  Golden  Loi-on.  Th'  coroner  and  Mr. 
Lofthouse,  th'  parson,  sent  for  him  to  tell  him 
summat  —  t^ummat  about  you !"  hissed  Stephen 
Hargraves,  with  his  dry  white  lips  close  to 
Aurora's  ear. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


HI 


"  What  do  vou  mean  ?"'  cried  Mrs.  Mellish, 
Htill  writhing  in  the  softy's  grasp  —  still  re- 
straining her  dog  from  flying  at  him  witli  her 
disengagt^d  hand;  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  what  I  say,'  answered  Steove 
Hargraves;  "I  mean  that  it  's  all  found  out. 
They  know  everything;  and  they  've  s«'nt  for 
Mr.  Mellish,  to  tell  him.  They  've  sent  for  him 
to  tell  him  what  you  was  to  him  that  's  dead.'' 

A  low  wail  broke  from  Aurora's  lipa.  Siie 
ha<I  expected  to  hear  this,  perlut]is;  .«he  had, 
at  any  rate,  dreaded  it;  she  had  only  fought 
against  receiving  the  tiding.s  from  this  man; 
hut  he  had  conquered  her— he  had  coiKjuered 
her,  as  the  dogged,  obstinate  nature,  however 
base,  will  always  conquer  the  generous  and 
impuLsive  soul.  He  had  secured  his  revenge, 
and  had  contrived  to  be  the  witness  of  her 
agony.  He  released  her  wrist  as  he  finished 
.•<i)cakiiig,  and  looked  at  her  —  looked  at  her 
with  an  insolently  triumphant  leer  in  hi.s  small 
eyes. 

She  drew  herself  up,  proudly  still  —  jiroud- 
ly  and  bravely  in  spite  of  all,  but  with  her 
face  changed  —  changed  from  its  former  ex- 
pression of  restless  pain  to  the  dull  blankncsa 
of  despair. 

"  Tiiey  found  th'  certificate,"  said  the  softy. 
"He'd  carried  it  about  with  him  sewed  up 
in  's  waistco-at." 

The  certificate!  Heaven  have  pity  upon 
her  girlish  ignorance  !  She  had  never  thouglit 
of  that;  she  liad  never  remembered  that  mis- 
erable scrap  of  paper  which  was  the  legal 
evidence  of  her  folly.  Slie  had  dreaded  the 
presence  of  that  husband  who  iiad  arisen,  as  if 
iioni  the  grave,  to  pursue  and  toiment  her, 
but  she  had  forgotten  tliat  otiier  evidence  of 
the  parish  register,  which  might  also  arise 
against  her  at  any  moment.  She  had  feared 
the  finding  of  something—  some  letter — some 
picture  —  souk.'  accidental  record  among  the 
possessions  of  the  murdered  man,  but  she  had 
never  thouglit  of  this  most  conclusive  evi- 
dence, this  most  incontrovertible  proof.  She 
put  her  hanil  to  her  head,  trying  to  realize 
the  full  horror  of  her  jKjsition.  Tiie  certifi- 
cate of  her  marriage  with  her  father's  groom 
was  in  the  hands  of  John  Mellish. 

"  Wliat  will  he  think  of  ine  V"  she  thought. 
"  How  would  he  erer  believi;  me  if  I  were  to 
tell  him  tiiat  I  had  received  what  I  thought 
positive  eviilence  of  James  Conyers'  death  a 
year  before  my  second  marriage  ?  How  could 
he  believe  in  me  ?  I  have  <le<t!ive«l  him  too 
cruelly  to  dare  to  a,^k  his  confidence." 

She  looked  about,  trying  to  collect  her.self, 
trying  to  decide  upon  what  she  ought  to  do, 
and  in  her  bewilderment  and  agony  Ibrgot  lor 
a  moment  the  greedy  eyei»  which  wrre  gloat- 
ing upon  her  misery.  IJut  she  remembered 
herself  presently,  and,  turning  sternly  upon 
St<;phen  Hargraves,  spoke  to  Inm  with  a  voitc 
whit'h  was  singularly  ilcar  and  steady. 

"  You  have  tuld  me  all  that  you   have  to 


tell,"  she  said;  -'be  so  good  as  to  get  out  of 
the  way  while  I  .shut  the  window." 

The  softy  drew  back  and  allowed  her  to 
elo.se  the  sashes;  s!ie  bolted  the  window,  and 
drew  down  the  Venetian  blind,  etTectually 
shutting  out  her  spy,  who  crept  away  slowly 
and  reluctantly  toward  the  shrubbery,  through 
which  he  could  make  his  way  safely  out  of  tlie 
grounds. 
I  'I  've  paid  her  out,"  he  muttered,  as  he 
i  shamble4  oil"  under  the  shelter  of  the  young 
trees;  "I  've  paid  her  out  pretty  tidy.  It  's 
almo.st  better  than  money. '  he  said,  laughing 
silently  —  "it  's  almost  better  than  m(,incy  to 
pay  ofl"  them  kind  of  debts." 

Aurora  seated  herself  at  John  Mellish's 
desk,  and  wrote  a  few  hurried  lines  upon  a 
sheet  of  paper  that  lay  up[)eimost  among  let- 
ters and  l)ills. 

"My  dkar  Lovk,"  she  wrote,  "I  can  not 
remain  here  fro  see  you  after  the  discovery 
which  has  been  made  to-day.  I  am  a  misera- 
ble coward,  and  I  can  not  meet  your  altered 
looks,  I  can  not  hear  your  altered  voice.  1 
have  no  hope  that  yon  can  have  any  other 
feeling  for  me  than  contempt  and  loathing. 
But  on  some  future  day,  when  1  am  tar  away 
from  you,  and  tiie  bewildei-ment  of"  my  pres- 
ent misery  has  grown  less,  i  will  write,  and 
explain  everything.  Think  of  me  mercii'ully 
if  you  can;  and  it  you  can  bclicvw  that,  in  the 
wicked  concealments  of  the  last  few  weeks, 
the  niain.spring  of  my  conduct  has  been  my 
love  for  you.  you  will  only  believe  the  truth. 
God  ble.ss  you,  my  best  and  truest.  The  pain 
of  leaving  you  for  ever  is  less  than  the  pain 
of  knowing  that  you  had  ceased  to  love  me. 
Good- by." 

She  lighted  a  taper,  and  .sealed  the  envel- 
ope which  contained  this  letter. 

"  The  .-ipics  who  hate  and  watch  me  shall 
not  rca^l  this."  slie  thought,  as  she  wrote 
John's  name  upon  the  envelope. 

4>he  left  the  letter  upon  the  desk,  and,  ris- 
ing from  her  seat,  looked  round  the  room  — 
looked  with  a  long,  lingering  gaze,  that  dwelt 
on  each  familiar  object.  How  happy  she  had 
been  among  all  that  masLuline  litter!  how 
happy  with  the  man  she  liad  believed  to  be  her 
husband!  how  innocently  haj)py  l^eforv-  the 
coming  down  of  that  horrible  storm-cloud 
which  had  overwhelmed  them  both  I  She 
turned  away  with  a  sliudder. 

"  I  have  brought  disgrace  and  misery  upon 
all  who  have  loved  me,"  she  tliought.  "  If  I 
had  been  less  cowardly — if  I  had  told  the 
truth  —  all  this  might  have  been  avoided  if  I 
had  coiifefwd  the  truth  to  Talbot  Biilstrode." 

She  |)au.sed  at  the  mention  of  thu  nam*'. 

"  1  will  go  to  Tall>ol,"  slie  thought.  "  He  \% 
a  gooil  man.  1  will  go  to  him;  I  shall  liave  no 
shame  now  in  telling  him  all.  He  will  advixf 
me  what  to  do,  he  will  brvak  thi)»  dipiovorj 
to  my  poor  father  " 


142 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Aurora  had  dimly  foreseen  this  misery  when 
she  had  ppoken  to  Lney  Balstrode  at  Feklen; 
she  had  dhnly  j'oroseen  a  day  in  whieh  all 
would  be  discovered,  and  she  would  fly  to 
Lucy  to  ask  ibr  a  shelter. 

She  looked  at  her  watch. 

"  A  quarter-past  three."  she  said.  "  There 
is  an  express  that  leaves  Doncaster  at  five.  I 
could  walk  the  distance  in  tlie  time." 

She  unlocked  the  door,  and  ran  up  stairs 
to  her  own  rooms.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
dressing-room,  but  her  maid  was  in  the  bed- 
room, arranging  some  dresses  in  a  huge  ward- 
robe. 

Aurora  selected  her  plainest  bonnet  and  a 
large  gra}'  cloak,  and  (juietly  put  them  on 
before  the  cheval  glass  in  one  of  the  pretty 
French  windows.  The  maid,  busy  with  her 
own  work,  did  not  take  any  particular  notice 
of  her  mistress's  ac-tions ;  for  Jlrs.  Mellish  was 
accustomed  to  wait  upon  herself,  and  disliked 
any  officious  attention. 

"How  pretty  the  rooms  look!"  Aurora 
thought,  with  a  weary  sigh;  "how  simple  and 
countrified!  It  was  tor  me  that  the  new  fur- 
niture was  chosen,  ibr  me  that  the  bath-room 
and  conservatory  were  built.'' 

She  looked  through  the  vista  of  brightly- 
carpeted  rooms. 

Would  they  ever  seem  as  cheerful  as  they 
had  once  done  to  tlieir  master?  Would  he 
still  occupy  them,  or  would  he  lock  the  doors, 
and  turn  his  back  upon  the  ol<l  house  in 
which  he  had  lived  such  an  untroubled  life 
for  nearly  two-and-tiiirty  years? 

"  My  poor  boy,  my  poor  boy !"  she  thought. 
"  Wliy  Avas  I  ever  born  to  bring  such  sorrow 
upon  him  ?" 

There  was  no  egotism  in  her  sorrow  for  his 
grief.  She  knew  tliat  he  had  loved  her,  and 
she  knew  tiiat  this  parting  would  be  the  bit- 
terest agony  of  his  lii'e  ;  but  in  the  depth  of 
mortification  wiiich  her  own  womanly  pride 
had  undergone,  slie  could  not  look  beyond  the 
present  shame  of  the  discovery  made  tKat 
day  to  a  lutui-e  of"  happiness  and  release. 

"  He  will  believe  that  T  never  loved  him," 
she  thought.  "  He  will  believe  that  he  was 
the  dupe  of  a  designing  woman,  who  wished 
to  regain  the  position  she  had  lost.  What  will 
he  not  think  of  me  that  is  base  and  horrible?" 

The  face  which  she  saw  in  the  glass  was 
very  pale  and  rigid  ;  the  large  dark  eyes  dry 
and  lustrous,  the  lips  drawn  tightly  down  over 
the  white  teeth. 

"  I  look  like  a  woman  who  could  cut  her 
throat  in  such  a  crisis  as  this,"  she  said. 
"  How  often  J  have  wondered  at  the  desperate 
deeds  done  by  women  I  I  shall  never  wonder 
again." 

She  unlocked  her  dressing-case,  and  took  a 
couple  of  bank-notes  and  some  loose  gold  from 
one  of  the  drawers.  She  put  the.'^e  in  her 
purse,  gathered  her  cloak  about  her,  and 
walked  toward  the  door. 


She  paused  on  the  threshold  to  speak  to 
her  maid,  who  was  still  busy  in  the  inner 
room. 

'•  I  am  going  into  the  earden,  Parsons," 
she  said  ;  "  tell  My.  Mellish  that  there  is  a  let- 
ter for  him  in  his  study." 

The  room  in  which  John  kept  his  boots  and 
racing-accounts  was  called  a  "  study  "  by  the 
respectful  household. 

Tiie  dog  Bow-wow  lifted  himself  lazily  from 
his  tiger-skin  rug  as  Aurora  crossed  the  hall, 
and  carne  sniffing  about  tier,  and  endeavored 
to  follow  her  out  of  the  house.  But  she  or- 
dered him  back  to  his  rug,  and  the  submissive 
animal  obeyed  her,  as  he  had  often  done  in  his 
youth,  when  his  young  mistress  used  to  throw 
her  doll  into  the  water  at  Felden,  and  send 
the  faithful  mastiff  to  rescue  that  fair-haired 
waxen  favorite.  He  obeyed  her  now,  but  a 
little  reluctantly ;  and  he  watched  her  sus- 
piciously as  she  descended  the  flight  of  steps 
before  the  door. 

She  walked  at  a  rapid  i)ace  across  the  lawn, 
and  into  the  shrubbery,  going  steadily  south- 
ward, though  by  that  means  she  made  her 
journey  longer ;  for  the  north  lodge  lay  tow- 
ard JJoiicaster.  In  her  way  through  the 
shrubbery  she  met  two  people,  who  walked 
closely  side  by  side,  engrossed  in  a  whisper- 
ing conversation,  and  who  both  started  and 
changed  countenance  at  seeing  her.  These 
two  people  were  the  softy  and  Mrs.  Powell. 

"So,"  she  thought,  as  she  passed  this  strange- 
ly-matched pair,  "  my  two  enemies  are  laying 
their  heads  together  to  plot  my  misery.  It  is 
time  that  I  left  Mellish  Park." 

She  went  out  of  a  little  gate  leading  into 
some  meadows.  Beyond  these  meadows  there 
was  a  long  shady  lane  that  led  behind  the 
house  to  IJoncaster.  It  was  a  path  rarely 
chosen  by  any  of  tlie  household  at  the  Park, 
as  it  was  the  longest  way  to  the  town. 

Aurora  stopped  at  about  u  mile  from  the 
house  which  had  been  her  own,  and  looked 
back  at  the  picturesque  pile  of  building,  half 
hidden  under  the  luxuriant  growth  of  a  couple 
of  centuries. 

"  Good-by,  dear  home,  in  which  I  was  an 
impostor  and  a  cheat,"  she  said;  "  good-by  for 
ever  and  for  ever,  my  own  dear  love." 

While  Aurora  uttered  tjiese  few  words  of 
passionate  farewell,  John  Mellish  lay  upon 
the  sun-burnt  grass,  staring  absently  at  the 
still  water-pools  under  the  gray  sky  —  pitying 
her,  praying  for  her,  and  forgiving  her  from 
the  depth  of  his  honest  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXIX.  .  . 

.JOHN  MKLLISH  KINDS  HIS    HOME  »KSOL.\TK. 

The  sun  was  low  in  tiie  western  sky,  and 
distant  village  clocks  had  struck  seven,  when 
John  Mellish  walked  slowlv  awav  from  that 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


143 


lonely  waste  of  stunted  grass  called  Harper's 
Common,  and  strolled  homeward  in  the  peace- 
ful evening. 

The  Yorkshire  squire  was  still  very  pale. 
He  walked  with  his  head  bent  forward  upon  [ 
his  breast,  and   the    hand   that   grasped   the  i 
crumpled  paper  thrust  into  the  bosom  of  his  \ 
waistcoat;    but  a  hopeful    light  shone  in   his 
eyes,  and  the  rigid  lines  of  his  mouth  had  re- 
laxed into  a  tender  smile  —  a  smile  of  love 
and  forgiveness.     Yes,  he  had  prayed  for  her,  i 
and  forgiven  her,  and  he  was  at  peace.     He 
had  pleaded  her  cause  a  hundre<l  times  in  the  ^ 
dull  quiet  of  that  sunmier's  afternoon,  and  had  ' 
excused  her,  and  forgiven  her.     Not  lightlv,  1 
Heaven  is  a  witness;  not  without  a  sharp  and  i 
cruel  struggle,  that  had  rent  his  heart  with  ! 
tortures  undreamed  of  before.  ' 

This  revelation  of  the  past  was  such  bitter  \ 
shame  to  him  —  such  horrible  degradation  —  ' 
such  irrevocable  infamy.  His  love,  his  idol,  his  i 
empress,  his  goildess— it  was  of  her  he  thought,  i 
By  what   hellish  witchcraft  had  she  bi-en  in-  ; 
snared  into  the  degrading  alliance  recorded  j 
in  this  miserable  scrap  of  paper  ?     The  pride  i 
of  five   unsullied  centuries   aro?e,  fierce   and  i 
ungovernable,  in   the  breast  of  the  country  ' 
gentleman,  to  resent  this  outrage   upon  the 
woman  he  loved.     O  God,  had  all  his  glorifi 
cation  of  her  been  the  vain  boasting  of  a  fool  j 
who  had  not  known  what  he  talked  about? 
He  was  answerable  to  the  world  for  the  past 
as  well  as  for  the  j)resent.     He  had  made  an 
altar  for  his  idol,  and  had  cried  aloud  to  all  ] 
who  came  near  her  to  kneel  down   and  per- 
form their  worship  at  her  shrine,  and  lie  was 
answerable  to  thest-  people  for  the  purity  of 
their  divinity.     He  couM  not  think  of  her  as 
less  than  the   idol  which   his  love  had  made 
her  —  perfect,  unsullied,   unassailable.      Dis- i 
grace  where  she  was  concerned  knew  in  his  ' 
mind  no  degrees.  I 

Jt  was  not  his  own  humiliation  he  thought 
of  when  his  face  giew  hot  as  he  imagined  the  ] 
talk  there  wotdd  be  in  the,  county  if  this  fatal 
indiscretion  of  Aurora's  youth  e.vor  because 
generally  known  ;  it  was  the  thought  of  her  | 
shame  that  stung  him  to  the  heart.     lie  never  j 
once  disturbed  himself  with  any  prevision  of  j 
the  ridicule  which  was  likely  to  tall  iqion  him. 

It  was  here  that  John  Mellish  and  Talbot  ■ 
Bulstrode  were  so  widely  diifercni  in  their 
manner  of  loving  and  sufl'ering.  Talbot  had 
sought  a  wife  who  should  reflect  h(5nor  ujjon 
himself,  and  h;id  fallen  away  from  .Aurora  at 
the  first  trial  of  his  faith,  shaken  with  horri-  ' 
l)le  apprehensions  of  his  own  danger.  But 
John  Mellish  had  submerged  his  very  i'lentity 
into  that  of  the  woman  hr  loved.  She  was 
his  faith  and  his  worship,  and  it  was  for  her 
glory  that  he  wept  in  this  cruel  day  of  shame. 
The  wrong  which  he  found  so  hard  to  forgive 
wa.s  not  her  wrong  against  him,  but  that 
other  and  more  fatal  wrong  aga'nst  horcelf.  I 
have  saiil  that  his  afft^ction  was  universal,  and 


partook  of  all  the  highest  attributes  of  that 
sublime  self-abnegation  which  we  call  Love. 
The  agony  which  he  felt  to-day  was  the  agony 
which  Archibald  Floyd  had  suffered  years  be- 
fore. It  was  vicarious  torture,  endured  for. 
Aurora,  and  not  for  himself;  and,  in  his  strug- 
gle against  that  sorrowful  anger  which  he  felt 
for  her  folly,  every  one  of  her  perfections 
took  up  arms  upon  the  side  of  his  indignation, 
and  fought  against  their  own  mistress.  Had 
she  been  less  beautiful,  less  (jueenly,  less  cen- 
erous,  great,  and  noble,  he  might  have  forgiven 
her  that  self-inflicted  shame  more  easily-  But 
she  was  .so  |ierfect ;  and  how  coLdd  she — how 
could  she  ? 

He  unfolded  the  wretched  paper  half  a 
dozen  times,  and  read  and  reread  everv  word 
of  that  commonplace  legal  document,  before 
he  could  convince  himself  that  it  was  not 
some  vile  forgery,  concocted  by  James  Con- 
yers  for  purposes  of  e.xtoition.  But  he  pray- 
ed for  her,  and  forgave  her.  He  pitied  her 
with  more  than  a  mother's  tender  pity,  with 
more  thau  a  sorrowful  father's  anguish. 

"  My  poor  dear  !"  he  said,  "  my  poor  dear  ! 
she  was  only  a  .school-^irl  when  this  certificate 
was  first  written — an  itinoi-ent  child,  ready  to 
believe  in  any  lies  told  her  by  a  villain." 

A  dark  frown  obscured  the  Yorkshiieman's 
brow  as  he  thought  this — a  frown  that  would 
have  promised  no  good  to  Mr.  James  Conyers 
had  not  the  trainer  passed  out  of  the  reach  of 
all  earthly  good  and  evil. 

"Will  God  have  mercy  upon  a  wretch  like 
that?"  thought  John  Mellish  ;  "  will  that  man 
be  forgiven  for  having  brought  disgrace  and 
misery  uj>on  a  trusting  girl  ?" 

It  will  perhaps  be  wondered  at  that  John 
Mellish.  who  suffered  his  servants  to  rule  in 
his  household,  and  allowed  his  butler  to  dictate 
to  him  what  wines  he  should  driidv,  who  talk- 
ed freely  to  his  grooms,  and  bade  his  trainer  sit 
in  his  presence  —  it  will  be  wondered  at,  per- 
haps, that  this  frank,  free-spoken,  simple-man- 
nered young  man  should  have  felt  so  bitterly 
the  shame  of  Aurora's  une<pial  marriage.  It 
was  a  common  saying  in  I)onc.T>ter  that  Squire 
Mellish,  of  the  Park,  had  no  pride ;  thai  he 
would  clap  poor  folks  on  the  shoulder,  and  give 
them  good -day  as  he  lounged  in  the  <|uiet 
street ;  that  he  would  sit  upou  the  corn-chand- 
ler's counter,  slashing  his  hunting-whip  upon 
those  popular  tops — about  which  a  legend  was 
current,  to  the  effei  t  that  they  were  always 
cleaned  with  Chamiiagne— and  di>i  ussing  the 
[irospects  of  the  September  meeting;  and  that 
there  was  not  within  the  three  Ridin;xs  a  bet- 
ter landlord  or  a  nobh-r-hearled  gcnilenien. 
And  all  this  was  perfectly  true.  John  Mel- 
lish wa-i  entirely  without  jn-rsonal  pride  ;  but 
tbeie  wa,<«  another  pride,  which  was  wlioily  in- 
separable from  his  education  and  positimi,  and 
this  wa."*  the  pr!<le  of  casf«.  He  wa.«  strictly 
conservative;  and  although  he  waa  ready  to 
talk   to  his  good    friend   the   xaddler,  or    Lis 


144 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


trusted  retainer  tlie  groom,  as  freely  as  he 
•would  have  held  converse  with  his  equals,  he 
■would  have  opposed  all  the  strength  of  his 
authority  against  the  saddler  had  that  honest 
tradesman  attempted  to  stand  for  his  native 
tovrn,  and  would  have  aunihilated  the  groom 
with  one  angry  flash  of  his  bright  blue  eyes 
had  the  servant  infringed  by  so  much  as  an 
inch  upon  tlie  broad  extent  of  territory  that 
separated  him  from  liis  master. 

The  struggle  was  finished  before  John  Hel- 
lish arose  from  the  brown  turf,  and  turned 
toward  the  home  which  he  had  left  early  that 
morning,  ignorant  of  the  great  trouble  that 
was  to  fall  upon  him,  and  only  dimly  conscious 
of  some  dark  foreboding  of  the  coming  of  an 
unknown  horror.  The  struggle  was  over,  and 
there  was  now  only  hope  in  his  heart  — the 
hope  of  clasping  his  wife  to  his  breast,  and 
comforting  her  for  all  the  past.  However 
bitterly  he  might  feel  the  humiliation  of  this 
madness  of  her  ignorant  girlhood,  it  was  not 
for  him  to  remind  her  of  it;  his  duty  was  to 
confront  the  world's  slander  or  the  world's 
ridicule,  and  oppose  Jiis  own  breast  to  the 
storm,  while  she  was  shielded  by  the  great 
shelter  of  his  love.  His  heart  yearned  for 
some  peaceful  foreign  land,  in  which  his  idol 
would  be  for  away  from  all  wlio  could  tell  her 
secret,  and  where  she  miglit  reign  once  more 
glorious  and  unapproacl)able.  He  was  ready 
to  impose  any  cheat  upon  the  world,  in  his 
greediness  of  praise  and  worship  for  her — for 
her.  How  tenderly  he  thought  of  her,  walk- 
ing slowly  homeward  in  that  tranquil  even- 
ing ?  He  thought  of  her  waiting  to  hear 
from,  him  the  issue  of  the  inquest,  and  he  re- 
proached hinisell'  for  his  neglect  when  he  re- 
membered how  long  lie  had  been  absent. 

"  But  my  darling  will  scarcely  be  uneasy," 
he  thought ;  "  she  Avill  hear  all  about  the 
inquest  from  some  one  or  other,  and  she  will 
think  tliat  I  have  gone  into  Doncaster  on 
business.  She  will  know  nothing  of  the  find- 
ing of  this  detestable  certificate.  No  one 
need  know  of  it.  Lofthouse  aud  Hayward 
are  honorable  men,  and  they  will  keep  my 
poor  girl's  secret ;  they  will  keep  the  secret  of 
her  foolish  youth — my  poor,  poor  girl !" 

He  longed  tor  that  moment  which  he  fan- 
cied so  near — the  moment  in  which  he  should 
fold  her  in  his  arms,  and  say,  "  My  dearest 
one,  be  at  peace ;  there  is  no  longer  any 
secret  between  us.  Henceforth  your  sorrows 
are  my  sorrows,  and  it  Is  hard  if"  I  can  not  help 
you  to  carry  the  loatl  lightly.  We  are  one, 
my  dear.  For  the  first  time  since  our  wed- 
ding-day, wc  are  truly  united." 

He  expected  to  find  Aurora  in  his  own 
room,  for  she  had  declareil  her  intention  of 
sitting  there  all  day  ;  and  he  ran  across  the 
broad  lawn  to  the  rose-shadowed  veranda  that 
sheltered  liis  favorite  retreat.  The  bliml  was 
drawn  down  and  the  window  bolted,  as  Au- 
rora had  bolted  it  in  her  wish  to  e.KC.lude  Mr. 


Stephen  Hargraves.  He  knocked  at  the  win- 
dow, but  there  was  no  answer. 

"  Lolly  has  grown  tired  of  waiting,"  he 
thought. 

The  second  dinner-bell  rang  in  the  hall 
while  Mr.  Mellish  lingered  outside  this  dark- 
ened window.  The  commonplace  sound  re- 
minded him  of  his  social  duties. 

•'  I  must  wait  till  dinner  is  over,  I  suppose, 
before  I  talk  to  my  darling,"  he  thought.  "I' 
must  go  through  all  the  usual  business,  for  the 
edification  of  Mrs.  Powell  and  the  servants, 
before  I  can  take  my  darling  to  my  breast, 
and  set  her  mind  at  ease  for  ever." 

John  Mellish  submitted  himself  to  the  in- 
disputable force  of  those  ceremonial  laws 
which  we  have  made  our  masters,  and  he  was 
prepared  to  eat  a  dinner  lor  which  he  had  no 
appetite,  and  wait  two  hours  for  that  moment 
tor  whose  coming  his  soul  yearned,  rather 
than  provoke  Mrs.  Powell's  curio.sity  by  any 
deviation  from  the  common  course  of  events. 

The  windows  of  the  drawing-room  were 
open,  and  he  saw  the  gliumier  of  a  pale  mus- 
lin dress  at  one  of  them.  It  belonged  to  Mrs. 
Powell,  who  was  sitting  in  a  contemplative 
attitude,  gazing  at  the  evening  sky. 

She  was  not  thinking  of  that  westei'n  glory 
of  pale  crimson  and  shining  gold.  She  was 
thinking  that  if  John  Mellish  cast  off  the 
wife  who  had  deceived  him,  and  who  had 
never  legally  been  his  wife,  the  Yorkshire 
mansion  would  be  a  fine  place  to  live  in  ;  a 
fine  place  for  a  housekeeper  who  knew  how 
to  obtain  influence  over  her  master,  and  who 
had  the  secret  of  his  married  life  and  of  his 
Avife's  disgrace  to  help  her  on  to  power. 

''  He  's  such  a  blind,  besotted  fool  about 
her,"  thought  the  ensign's  widow,  "  that  if  he 
breaks  with  her  to-morrow,  he  '11  go  on  loving 
her  just  the  same,  and  he  '11  do  anything  to 
keep  her  secret.  Let  it  work  which  way  it 
will,  they  're  in  my  power  —  they  "re  both  in 
my  power ;  and  I  'm  no  longer  a  poor  de- 
pendent, to  be  sent  away,  at  a  quarter's  no- 
tice, when  it  pleases  them  to  be  tired  of  me." 

The  bread  of  dependence  is  not  a  pleasant 
diet,  but  there  are  many  ways  of  eating  the 
same  food.  Mrs.  Powell's  habit  was  to  re- 
ceive all  favors  grudgingly,  as  she  would  have 
given,  had  it  been  her  lot  to  give  instead  of 
to  receive.  She  measured  others  by  her  own 
narrow  gauge,  and  was  powerless  to  compre- 
hend or  believe  in  the  frank  impulses  of  a 
generous  nature.  She  knew  that  she  was  a 
useless  member  of  Poor  John's  household,  and 
that  the  young  squire  could  have  easily  dis- 
pensed with  her  presence.  She  knew,  in 
short,  that  she  was  retained  by  reason  of  Au- 
rora's pity  tor  her  frieudlessuess ;  and,  having 
neither  gratitude  nor  kiudly  feelings  to  give 
in  return  for  her  comfortable  shelter,  she  re- 
sented her  own  poverty  of  nature,  and  hated 
her  entertainers  for  their  generosity.  It  is  a 
property  of  the.si;  narrow  natures  so  to  resent 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


14  5 


the  attributes  they  can  envy,  but  can  not 
even  understand ;  and  Mrs.  Powell  had  been 
far  more  at  ease  in  households  in  which  she 
had  been  treated  as  a  lady-like  drudi^e  than 
she  had  ever  been  at  Mellish  Park,  wliere  she 
was  received  as  an  equal  and  a  guest.  She 
had  eaten  the  bitter  bread  upon  which  she 
had  lived  so  long  in  a  bitter  spirit,  that  her 
■whole  nature  had  turned  to  gall  from  the  in- 
fluence of  that  disagreeable  diet.  A  moder- 
ately generous  person  can  bestow  a  favor,  and 
bestow  it  well;  but  to  receive  a  boon  with 
perfect  grace  requires  a  far  nobler  and  more 
generous  nature. 

John  Mellish  approached  the  open  window 
at  which  the  ensign's  widow  was  seated,  and 
looked  into  the  room.  Aurora  was  not  there. 
The  long  saloon  seemed  empty  and  desolate. 
Tlie  decorations  of  the  temple  looked  cold 
and  dreary,  for  the  deity  was  absent. 

"No  one  here  1"  exclaimed  Mr.  Mellish, 
disconsolately. 

"  No  one  but  me,"  murmured  Mrs.  Powell, 
with  an  accent  of  mild  deprecation. 
"  But  where  is  my  wife,  ma'am  '*" 
He  said  those  two  small  words,  "  my  wife," 
with    .such   a  tone  of  resolute  defiance  that 
Mrs.  Powell   looked  at  hira  as  he  spoke,  and 
thought,  "  He  luis  seen  the  certificate." 
"  \Vliere  is  Aurora  ?"  repeated  John. 
"  I  believe  that  Mrs.  Mellish  has  gone  out." 
"  Gouc  out  I  where  V" 

"  You  forget,  sir,"  said  the  ensign's  widow, 
reproachfully  —  "you  appear  to  Ibrget  your 
special  request  that  I  should  abstain  from  all  ' 
supervision  of  Mrs.  McUish's  arrangements.  I 
Prior  to  tliat  request,  which  I  may  venture  to 
suggest  was  unnecessarily  emphatic,  I  had 
certainly  considered  mys.df  as  tlie  humble 
individual  chosen  by  Miss  Floyds  aunt,  and 
invested  by  her  with  a  species  of  authority 
over  the  young  lady's  actions,  in  some  manner 
responsible  for — " 

John  Mellish  chafed  horribly  under  the 
merciless  stream  of  long  words  which  Mrs. 
Powell  poured  upon  his  head. 

"  Talk  about  that  at  another  time,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  ma'am,"  he  said,  impatiently. 
"  I  only  want  to  know  where  my  wife  is. 
Two  words  will  tell  me  that,  I  suppose." 

"  1  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  am  unable  to 
aflTord  you  any  information  upon  that  subject," 
answered  Mrs.  Powell ;  "  Mrs.  Mellish  quitted 
the  house  at  about  half- past  three  o'clock, 
dressed  for  walking.  I  have  not  seen  her 
since." 

Heaven  forgive  Aurora  for  the  trouble  it 
had  been  her  lot  to  bring  upon  those  who  best 
loved  her.  John's  heart  grew  sick  with  ter- 
ror at  this  first  failure  of  his  hope.  He  had 
pictured  her  waiting  to  receive  him,  ready  to 
fall  upon  his  breast  in  answer  to  his  passionate 
cry,  "  Aurora,  come  !  come,  dear  love !  the 
iecret  has  been  discovered,  and  is  forgiven." 
"  Somebody  knows  where  my  wife  has  gone, 


I  suppose,  Mr,s.  Powell?"  he  said,  fiercely, 
turning  upon  the  ensign's  widow  in  his  wrath- 
ful sense  of  disappointment  and  alarm.  He 
was  only  a  big  child  after  all,  with  a  child's 
alternate  hopefulness  and  despair;  with  a 
child's  passionate  devotion  for  those  he  loved, 
and  ignorant  terror  of  danger  to  those  be- 
loved ones. 

"  Mrs.  Mellish  may  have  made  a  confidante 
of  Parsons,"  replied  the  ensign's  widow,  "but 
.she  certainly  did  not  enlighten  me  as  to  her 
intended  movements.  Shall  I  ring  the  bell 
for  Parsons  ?" 
"  If  you  please." 

John  ]\Iellish  stood  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  French  window,  not  caring  to  enter  the 
handsome  chamber  of  which  he  was  the  mas- 
ter. Why  shoulil  he  go  into  the  house  'i  It 
was  no  home  tor  him  without  the  woman  who 
had  made  it  so  dear  and  sacred  —  dear  even 
in  the  darkest  hour  of  sorrow  and  anxiety, 
sacred  even  in  despite  of  the  trouble  his  love 
had  brought  upon  him. 

The  maid  Parsons  ap])eared  in  answer  to  a 
message  sent  by  Mrs.  Powell,  and  John  strode 
into  the  room,  and  interrogated  her  sharply  as 
to  tiie  departure  of  her  mistress. 
I      The  girl  could  tell  very  little,  e.xcept  that 
j  Mrs.  Mellish  had  said  that  she  was  going  into 
,  the  garden,  and  that  she  had  left  a  letfer  in 
[  the  study  for  the  master  of  the  house.     Per- 
I  haps  Mrs.  Powell  was  even  better  aware  of 
the  existence  of  this  letter  than  the  abigail 
herself.     She  had  crept  stealthily  into  John's 
:  room  after  her  interviciw  with  the  softy  and 
\  her  chance  encounter  with  Aurora.     She  had 
found   the   letter   lying   on   the  table,  sealed 
with   a  crest  and  monogram   that   were   en- 
graved upon  a  bloodstone  worn  by  Mrs.  Mel- 
lish among  the  trinkets  on  her  watcli-chain. 
It  was  not  possible,  therefore,  to  manipulate 
this  letter  with  any  safety,  and  Mrs.  Powell 
had   contented   herself  by  guessing  darkly  at 
its  contents.     Tiie  softy  had  told  her  of  the 
fatal  discovery  of  the   morning,  and  siie   in- 
stinctively comprehended  the  meaning  of  that 
sealed  letter,     it  was  a  letter  of  explanation 
and  farewell,  perhaps  —  perhaps  only  of  fare- 
well. 

John  strode  along  the  corridor  that  led  to 
his  favorite  room.  The  chamber  was  dimly 
lighted  by  the  yellow  evening  sunlight  which 
streamed  from  between  the  Venetian  blinds 
and  drew  ffolden  bars  upon  the  malteii  floor. 
But  even  in  that  dusky  and  unccjtain  light 
he  saw  the  white  patch  upon  the  table,  and 
sprang  with  tigerish  haste  upon  the  letter  bis 
wife  had  left  for  him. 

He  drew  up  the  Venetian  blind,  and  stood 
in  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  with  the 
evening  sunlight  upon  his  face,  reading  Auro- 
ra's letter.  There  was  neither  anger  nor 
alarm  visible  in  his  fjace  as  he  read  —  only  su- 
preme love  and  supremi;  compassion. 

"My  poor  darlmg!    my  poor  girl!     How 


146 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


ooulu  she  think  that  there  could  ever  be  such 
<i  word  as  good-by  between  us !  Does  she 
think  so  lightly  of"  my  love  as  to  believe  that 
it  could  fail  her  now,  when  she  wants  it  most? 
Why,  if  that  man  had  lived,"  he  thought,  his 
face  darkening  with  the  memory  of  that  un- 
buried  clay  which  yet  lay  in  the  still  chamber 
at  the  north  lodge  —  "  if  that  man  had  lived, 
and  had  claimed  her,  and  carried  her  away 
fi-oBi  me  by  the  right  of  the  paper  in  my 
breast,  I  would  have  clung  to  her  still ;  I 
would  have  followed  wherever  he  went,  and 
would  have  lived  near  him,  that  she  might 
have  known  where  to  look  for  a  defender  from 
every  wrong ;  I  would  have  been  his  servant, 
the  willing  servant  and  contented  hanger-on 
of  a  boor,  if  I  could  have  served  her  by  en- 
during his  insolence.  So,  my  dear,  my  dear," 
murmured  the  young  squire,  with  a  tender 
smile,  "  it  was  worse  than  foolish  to  write  this 
letter  to  me,  and  even  more  useless  than  it 
was  cruel  to  run  away  from  the  man  who 
would  follow  you  to  the  farthest  end  of  this 
wide  Avorld." 

He  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket,  and  took 
his  hat  from  the  table.  He  was  ready  to 
start  —  he  scarcely  knew  for  what  destina- 
tio:: ;  for  the  end  of  the  world,  perhaps  —  in 
his  search  for  the  woman  he  loved.  But  he 
was  going  to  Felden  Woods  before  beginning 
the  longer  journey,  as  he  fully  believed  that 
Aurora  would  Hy  to  her  father  in  her  foolish 
terror. 

"  To  think  that  anything  could  ever  happen 
to  change  or  lessen  my  love  for  her,"  he  said : 
"  foolish  girl !  foolish  girl !" 

He  rang  for  his  servant,  and  ordered  the 
hasty  packing  of  his  smallest  portmanteau. 
He  was  going  to  town  for  a  day  or  two,  and 
he  was  going  alone.  He  looked  at  his  watch ; 
it  was  only  a  quarter  after  eight,  and  the  mail 
left  Doncaster  at  half-past  twelve.  There 
was  plenty  of  time,  therefore  ;  a  great  deal 
too  much  time  for  the  feverish  impatience  of 
Mr.  Mellish,  who  would  have  chartered  a  spe- 
cial engine  to  convey  him,  had  the  railway 
officials  been  willing.  There  were  four  long 
hours  during  which  he  must  wait,  wearing  out 
his  heart  in  his  anxiety  to  follow  the  woman 
he  loved  —  to  take  her  to  his  breast,  and  com- 
fort and  shelter  her  —  to  tell  her  that  true 
love  knows  neither  decrease  nor  change.  He 
ordered  the  dog-cart  to  be  got  ready  for  him 
at  eleven  o'clock.  There  was  a  slow  train 
that  left  Doncaster  at  ten  ;  but,  as  it  reached 
London  only  ten  minutes  before  the  mail,  it 
was  scarcely  desirable  as  a  conveyance.  Yet, 
after  the  hour  had  passed  for  its  starting,  Mr. 
Mellish  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  that 
lost  ten  minutes,  and  was  tormented  by  a 
fancy  that,  through  the  loss  of  those  very  ten 
minutes,  he  should  miss  the  chance  of  an  im- 
mediate meeting  with  Aurora. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  before  he  remembered 
the  necessity  of  making  some  pretence  of  sit- 


ting down  to  dinner.  He  took  his  place  at 
the  end  of  the  long  table,  and  sent  for  Mrs. 
Powell,  who  appeared  in  answer  to  his  sum- 
mons, and  seated  herself  with  a  well-bred 
affectation  of  not  knowing  that  the  dinner 
had  been  put  off  for  an  hour  and  a  half. 

"  I  'ra  sorry  I  've  kept  you  so  long,  Mrs. 
Powell,"  he  said,  as  he  sent  the  ensign's  widow 
a  ladleful  of  clear  soup,  that  was  of  the  tem- 
perature of  lemonade.  "  The  truth  is,  that  I 
—  I  —  find  I  shall  be  compelled  to  run  up  to 
town  by  the  mail." 

"  Upon  no  unpleasant  business,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no ;  not  at  all.  Mrs.  Mellish  has 
gone  up  to  her  father's  place,  and  —  and  — 
has  requested  me  to  follow  her,"  added  John, 
telling  a  lie  with  considerable  awkwardness, 
but  with  no  very  great  remorse.  He  did  not 
speak  again  during  dinner.  He  ate  anything 
that  his  servants  put  before  him,  and  took  a 
good  deal  of  wine;  but  he  ate  and  drank 
alike  unconsciously,  and  when  the  cloth  had 
been  removed,  and  he  was  left  alone  with 
Mrs.  Powell,  he  sat  staring  at  the  reflection  of 
the  wax  candles  in  the  depths  of  the  mahogany. 
It  was  only  when  the  lady  gave  a  little  cere- 
monial cough,  and  rose  with  the  intention  of 
simpering  out  of  the  room,  that  he  roused 
himself  from  his  long  reverie,  and  looked  up 
suddenly. 

"  Don't  go  just  this  moment,  if  you  please, 
Mrs.  Powell,"  he  said.  "  If  you  '11  sit  down 
again  for  a  few  minutes,  I  shall  be  glad.  I 
wished  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  you  before  I 
leave  Mellish." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  pointed  to  a  chair. 
Mrs.  Powell  seated  herself,  and  looked  at  him 
earnestly,  with  an  eager,  viperish  earnestness, 
and  a  nervous  movement  of  her  thin  lips. 

"  When  you  came  here,  Mrs.  Powell,"  said 
John,  gravely,  "  you  came  as  my  wife's  guest 
and  as  my  wife's  friend.  I  need  .scarcely  say 
that  you  could  have  had  no  better  claim  upon 
my  friendship  and  hospitality.  If  you  had 
brought  a  regiment  of  dragoons  with  you  as 
the  condition  of  your  visit,  they  would  have 
been  welcome,  for  I  believed  that  your  com- 
ing would  give  pleasure  to  my  poor  girl.  If 
my  wife  had  been  indebted  to  you  for  any 
word  of  kindness,  for  any  look  of  affection,  I 
would  have  repaid  that  debt  a  thousand-fold, 
had  it  lain  in  my  power  to  do  so  by  any  ser- 
vice, however  difficult.  You  would  have  lost 
nothing  by  your  love  for  my  poor  motherless 
girl  if  any  devotion  of  mine  could  have  recom- 
pensed you  for  that  tenderness.  It  was  only 
reasonable  that  I  should  look  to  you  as  the 
natural  friend  and  counsellor  of  my  darling, 
and  I  did  so  honestly  and  confidently.  For- 
give me  if  I  tell  you  that  I  very  soon  discov- 
ered how  much  I  had  been  mistaken  in  enter- 
taining such  a  hope.  I  soon  saw  that  yo« 
were  no  friend  to  my  wife." 

"  Mr.  Mellish !" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  madam,  you  think  because  I 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


147 


keep  hiniting-boots  and  ciins  in  the  room  I 
call  my  study,  and  bocanse  I  remember  no 
more  of  the  Latin  that  my  tutor  crammed  into 
my  head  than  the  first  line  of  the  Eton  Syn- 
tax -r-you  think,  because  I  'm  not  elever,  that 
I  must  needs  be  a  fool.  That  's  your  mistake, 
Mrs.  Powell ;  I  'm  not  clever  enough  to  be  a 
fool,  and  I  've  just  sufiicient  perception  to  see 
any  danger  that  assails  those  I  love.  You 
don  t  like  my  wife  ;  you  grudge  her  her  youth, 
and  her  beauty,  and  my  foolish  love  for  her ; 
and  you  've  watched,  and  listened,  and  plot- 
ted —  in  a  lady-like  way,  of  com-se  —  to  do 
her  some  evil.  Forgive  mo  if  I  speak  plainly. 
Where  Aurora  is  concerned,  I  feel  very 
strongly.  To  hurt  her  little  finger  is  to  tor- 
ture my  Avhole  body.  To  stab  her  once  is  to 
stab  me  a  hundred  timus.  I  have  no  wish  to 
be  di.scourteous  to  a  lady ;  T  am  only  sorry 
that  you  have  been  unable  to  love  a  poor  girl 
who  ha.s  rarely  failed  to  win  friends  among 
those  who  have  known  her.  Let  us  part 
without  animosity,  but  let  us  understand  each 
other  for  the  first  time.  You  do  not  like  us, 
and  it  is  better  that  we  should  part  before  you 
learn  to  hate  us." 

The  ensign's  widow  waited  in  utter  stupe- 
faction until  Mr.  Mellish  stopped,  from  want 
of  breath,  perhaps,  rather  than  from  want  of 
words. 

All  her  viperish  nature  rose  in  white  defi- 
ance of  him,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  chafing  himself  into  a  fury  with  his  rec- 
ollection of  the  wrong  she  had  done  him  in 
not  loving  his  wife. 

"  You  are  perhaps  aware,  Mr.  Mellish,"  she 
said,  afler  an  awful  pause,  "  that  under  such 
circumstances  the  annual  stipend  due  to  me 
for  my  services  can  not  be  e.xpected  to  cease 
at  your  caprice ;  and  that,  although  you  may 
turn  me  out  of  doors" — Mrs.  Powell  descend- 
ed to  this  very  commonplace  locution,  and 
stooped  to  the  vernacular  in  her  desire  to  be 
spiteful — "  you  must  understand  that  you  will 
be  liable  lor  mv  salarv  until  the  expiration 
of—" 

"  Oh,  pray  do  not  imagine  that  I  shall  repu- 
diate any  claim  you  may  make  upon  me,  Mrs. 
Powell,"  said  John,  eagerly;  "  Heaven  knows 
it  has  been  no  pleasure  to  me  to  speak  as 
plainly  as  I  have  spoken  to-night.  I  will 
write  a  check  for  any  amount  you  may  con- 
sider proper  as  compensation  for  this  change 
in  our  arrangements.  I  might  have  been  more 
polite,  perhaps  ;  I  might  have  told  you  that 
my  wife  anfl  I  think  of  travelling  on  the  Con- 
tinent, and  tliat  we  are,  therefore,  breaking 
up  our  household.  I  have  preferred  telling 
you  the  plain  truth.  Forgive  me  if  I  have 
wounded  you." 

Mrs.  Powell  rose,  pale,  menacing,  terrible — 
terrible  in  the  intensity  of  her  feeble  wrath, 
and  in  the  consciousness  that  she  had  power 
to  stab  the  heart  of  the  man  who  had  atfront- 
''d  her. 


"  You  have  merely  anticipated  my  own  in- 
tention, Mr.  Mellish,"  she  said.  "I  could  not 
possibly  have  remained  a  member  of  your 
household  af\er  the  very  unpleasant  circun*- 
stances  that  have  lately  transpired.  My  worst 
wish  is,  that  you  may  find  yourself  involved 
in  no  greater  trouble  through  your  connection 
with  I^Ir.  Floyd's  daughter.  Let  me  add  one 
word  of  warning  before  I  have  the  honor  of 
wishing  you  good-evening.  Malicious  peopk^ 
might  be  tempted  to  smile  at  your  enthusiastic 
mention  of  your  '  wife.'  remembering  that  the 
person  to  whom  you  allude  is  Aurora  Conyers, 
the  widow  of  your  groom,  and  that  she  ha,i 
never  possessed  any  legal  claim  to  the  title 
you  bestow  upon  her." 

If  Mrs.  Powell  had  been  a  man,  she  would 
have  found  her  head  in  contact  with  the  Tur- 
key carpet  of  Jolin's  dining-room  before  she 
could  have  (.'oncluded  this  speech  ;  as  she  wa« 
a  woman,  John  Mellish  stood  looking  lier  full 
in  the  face,  waiting  till  she  had  finished  speak- 
ing. But  he  bore  the  stab  she  inflicted  with- 
out flinching  under  its  cruel  pain,  and  he  rob- 
bed her  of  the  gratification  she  had  hoped  for. 
He  did  not  let  her  see  his  anguish. 

"  If  Loithouse  has  told  her  the  secret,"  he 
cried,  when  the  door  had  closed  upon  Mrs. 
Powell,  "  I  '11  horsewhip  him  in  the  church." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

AN    UNKXPECTED   VISITOR. 

AiH'ora  foTind  a  civil  railway  official  at  tic 
Doncaster  station,  who  was  ready  to  take  ;» 
ticket  foi-  her,  and  find  her  a  comfortable  seat 
in  an  empty  carriage  ;  but  before  the  train 
started  a  couple  of  sturdy  farmers  took  their 
.seats  upon  the  spring  cushions  opposite  Mr3. 
Mellish.  They  were  wealthy  gentlemen,  who 
farmed  their  own  land,  and  travelled  express  ; 
but  they  brought  a  powerful  odor  of  the 
stabh>-yard  into  the  carriage,  and  they  talked 
with  that  honest  Northern  twang  which  ai- 
ways  has  a  friendly  sotmd  to  the  Avriter  of 
this  story.  Aurora,  with  her  veil  drawn  over 
her  pale  fa<'e,  attrai'ted  very  little  of  their  .'»(,- 
tention.  They  talked  of  farming-stock  and 
horse-racing,  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
every  now  and  then  to  shrug  their  shouldert 
at  somebodj'  elses  agriculture. 

I  believe  they  were  acquainted  with  thi 
capabilities  of  every  acre  of  land  betweto 
Doncaster  and  Harrow,  and  knew  how  it 
might  have  been  made  "  worth  ten  shillin'  an 
acre  more  than  it  was,  too,  sir,"  as  they  per- 
petually informed  each  other. 

How  wearisome  their  talk  must  have  scen»- 
ed  to  the  poor  lonely  creature  who  'was  run- 
ning away  from  the  man  she  loved — from  the 
man  who  loved  her,  and  would  love  to  the  end 
of  time. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  what  T  wrote,"  she  thoughl. 


148 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


"  My  poor  boy  would  never  love  me  less.  His 
great  heart  is  made  up  of  unselfish  love  and 
generous  devotion.  But  he  wouW  be  sorry 
for  me ;  he  would  be  so  sorrj- !  He  could 
never  be  proud  of  me  again;  he  could  never 
boast  of  me  any  more.  He  would  be  always 
resenting  some  insult,  or  imagining  some 
slight.  It  would  be  too  painful  for  him.  He 
would  see  his  wife  pointed  at  as  the  woman 
who  had  married  her  groom.  He  would  be 
embroiled  in  a  hundred  quarrels,  a  hundred 
miseries.  I  will  make  the  only  return  that  I 
can  ever  make  to  him  for  his  goodness  to  me — 
I  will  give  him  up,  and  go  away  and  hide  my- 
self from  him  for  ever." 

She  tried  to  imagine  what  John's  life  would 
be  without  her.  She  tried  to  think  of  him  in 
some  future  time,  when  he  should  have  worn 
out  his  grief,  and  reconciled  himself  to  her 
loss.  But  she  could  not,  she  could  not !  She 
could  not  endure  any  image  of  Mm  in  which 
he  was  separated  from  his  love  for  her. 

"  How  should  I  ever  think  of  him  without 
thinking  of  his  love  for  me  ?"  she  thought. 
"  He  loved  me  from  the  lirst  moment  in  which 
he  saw  me.  I  have  never  known  him  except 
as  a  lover — generous,  pure,  and  true." 

And  in  this  mind  Aurora  watched  the 
smaller  stations,  which  looked  like  mere 
streaks  of  whitened  wood-work  as  the  express 
tore  past  them,  though  every  one  of  them  was 
a  mile-stone  upon  the  long  road  which  was 
separating  her  from  the  man  she  loved. 

Ah  I  careless  wives,  who  think  it  a  small 
thing,  perhaps,  that  your  husbands  are  honest 
and  generous,  constant  and  true,  and  who  are 
apt  to  grumble  because  }Our  next-door  neigh- 
bors have  started  a  carriage,  while  you  are 
fain  to  be  content  with  eighteen-penny  airings 
in  vehicles  procured  at  the  nearest  cab-stand, 
stop  and  think  of  this  wretched  girl,  who  in 
this  hour  of  desolation  recalled  a  thousand 
little  wrongs  she  had  done  to  her  husband, 
and  would  have  laid  herself  under  his  feet  to 
he  walked  over  by  him  could  she  have  thus 
atoned  for  her  petty  tyrannies,  her  petty 
caprices.  Think  of  her  in  her  loneliness, 
with  her  heart  yearning  to  go  back  to  the 
main  she  loved,  and  with  her  love  arrayed 
against  herself,  and  pleading  for  him.  She 
changed  her  mind  a  hundred  times  during 
that  four  hours  journey,  sometimes  thinking 
that  she  would  go  back  by  the  next  train,  and 
then  again  remembering  that  her  first  impulse 
had  been,  perhaps,  after  all,  only  too  correct, 
and  that  John  Mellish's  heart  had  turned 
against  her  in  the  cruel  humiliation  of  that 
morning's  discovery. 

Have  you  ever  tried  to  imagine  the  anger 
of  a  person  whom  you  have  never  seen  angry? 
HaA'e  you  ever  called  up  the  image  of  a  face 
that  has  never  looked  on  you  except  in  love 
and  gentleness,  and  invested  that  familiar 
countenance  with  the  blank  sternness  of  es- 
tj'angement  ?     Aurora  did   this.     She    acted 


over  and  over  again  in  her  weary  brain  the 
scene  that  might  have  taken  place  between 
her  husband  and  herself.     She  remembered 
that  scene  in  the  hackneyed  stage-play,  which 
everybody    affects   to  ridicule,   and    secretly 
weeps  at.     She  remembered  Mrs.  Haller  and 
the  Stranger,  the  children,  the  countess,  the 
cottage,  the  jewels,  the  parchments,   and  all 
the  old  familiar  properties  of  that  well-known 
fifth  act  in  the  simple  social  tragedy,  and  she 
pictured  to  herself  John  Hellish  retiring  into  , 
some  distant  country  Avitli  his  rheumatic  train- 
er Langley,  and  becoming  a  misanthropical 
hermit,  after  the  manner  of  the  injured  Ger- 
man. 

What  was  her  life  to  be  henceforth  ?  She 
shut  her  eyes  upon  that  blank  future. 

"  I  will  go  back  to  mv  father,"'  she  thought; 
"I  will  go  back  to  him  again,  as  I  went  before. 
But  this  time  there  shall  be  no  falsehoods, 
no  equivocations,  and  this  time  nothing  shall 
tempt  me  to  leave  him  again." 

Amid  all  her  perplexities,  she  <'lung  to  the 
thought  that  Lucy  and  Talbot  would  help  her. 
She  would  appeal  to  passionless  Talbot  Bul- 
strode  in  liehalf  of  her  j^oor  heart-broken 
John. 

"  Talbot  will  tell  me  what  is  right  and 
honorable  to  be  done,"  she  thought.  "  I  will 
hold  by  what  he  says.  He  shall  be  the  arbiter 
of  my  future." 

I  do  not  believe  that  Aurora  had  ever  en-- 
tertained  any  very  passionate  devotion  for  the 
handsome  Cornishman,  but  it  is  very  certain 
that  she  had  always  respected  him.  It  may 
be  that  any  love  she  had  felt  for  him  had 
grown  out  of  that  very  respect,  and  that  her 
reverence  for  his  character  was  made  all  the 
greater  by  the  contrast  between  him  and  the 
base-born  schemer  for  whom  her  youth  had 
been  sacrificed.  She  had  submitted  to  the 
decree  which  had  separated  her  from  her  af- 
fianced lover,  for  she  had  believed  in  its  jus- 
tice ;  and  she  was  ready  now  to  submit  to  any 
decision  pronounced  by  the  man  in  whose 
sense  of  honor  she  had  unbounded  confidence. 

She  thought  of  all  these  things  again,  and 
again,  and  again,  while  the  farmers  talked  of 
sheep  and  turnips,  of  Thorley's  food,  Swedes, 
and  beans,  and  corn,  and  clover,  and  of  mys- 
terious diseases,  Avhich  they  discussed  gravely, 
under  such  terms  as  "  red  gum,"  "  finger  and 
toe,"  etc.  They  alternated  this  talk  with  a 
dash  of  turf  scandal ;  and  even  in  the  all- 
absorbing  perplexities  of  her  domestic  sor- 
rows Mrs.  Mellish  could  have  turned  fiercely 
upon  these  innocent  farmers  when  they  pooh- 
poohed  John's  stable,  and  made  light  of  the 
reputation  of  her  namesake  the  bay  filly,  and 
declared  that  no  horse  that  came  out  of  the 
squire's  stables  was  ever  anything  better  than 
a  plater  or  a  screw. 

The  journey  came  to  an  end,  only  too 
quickly  it  seemed  to  Aurora — too  quickly,  for 
everv  mile  widened  the  gulf  she  had  set  be- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


149 


tween  herself  and  the  home  she  loved ;  every 
moment  only  brought  the  realization  of  her 
loss  more  fully  home  to  her  mind. 

"  I  will  abide  by  Talbot  Bulstrode's  advice," 
she  kept  saying  to  herself;  indeed,  this 
thought  was  tiie  only  reed  to  which  she  clung 
in  her  trouble.  She  was  not  a  strong-minded 
woman.  She  had  the  generous,  impulsive 
nature  which  naturally  turns  to  others  for 
help  and  comfort.  Secret! veness  had  no  part 
in  her  organization,  and  the  one  concealment 
of  her  life  had  been  a  perpetual  i^aiii  and 
grief  to  her. 

It  was  ])ast  eight  o'clock  when  she  found 
herself  alone  amid  the  bustle  ami  confusion  of 
the  King's  Cross  terminus.  She  sent  a  porter 
for  a  cab,  and  ordered  the  man  to  drive  to 
Halt-Moon  street.  It  was  only  a  few  days 
since  she  had  met  Lucy  and  Talbot  at  Felden 
Woods,  and  she  knew  that  Mr.  Bulstrode  and 
his  wife  were  detained  in  town,  waiting  for 
the  prorogation  of  the  House. 

It  was  Saturday  evening,  and  therefore  a 
holiday  for  the  young  advocate  of  the  Corni.sh 
miners  and  their  rights ;  but  Talbot  spent  his 
leisure  among  P)lMc-books  and  Parliamentary 
Minutes,  and  poor  Lucy,  who  might  have  been 
shining,  a  pale  star,  at  some  crowded  conver- 
sazione, was  eomiH'Hcd  to  forego  the  pleasure 
of  struggling  upoti  the  staircase  of  one  of 
those  wise  individuals  wlio  insist  uj)on  Inviting 
their  accpiaintauces  to  ])ack  themselves  into 
the  smallest  given  space  consistent  with  the 
preservation  of  life,  and  trample  upon  each 
other's  lace  flounces  and  varnished  lioots  with 
smiling  equanimity.  Perhaps,  in  tlie  universal 
fitness  of  things,  even  these  fasliionable  even- 
ings have  a  certain  solemn  purpose,  deeply 
hidden  under  considerable  sin-farc-fi'ivolity. 
It  may  be  that  they  serve  as  moral  gymnasia, 
in  which  the  thews  and  sinews  of  social 
amenity  are  racked  and  tortured,  with  a  view 
to  their  increased  power  of  endurance.  It  is 
good  for  a  man  to  have  his  favorite  corn  trod- 
den upon,  and  yet  be  compelled  to  smile  un- 
der the  torture ;  and  a  woman  may  leani  her 
first  great  lesson  in  fortitmle  from  the  destruc- 
tion of  fifty  guineas'  worth  of  Mechlin,  and 
the  necessity  of  assuring  the  destroyer  that 
she  is  rather  gratified  tlian  otiierwise  by  the 
sacrifice.  Noblesse  tihli(/e.  It  is  good  to  "suf- 
fer and  be  strong."  Cold  cofTee  and  tepid  ice- 
cream may  not  be  the  most  strengthening  or 
delightful  of  food,  but  there  may  be  a  moral 
diet  provided  at  these  social  gatherings  which 
is  not  witliout  its  usefulness. 

Lucy  willingly  abandoned  her  own  delights, 
for  she  had  that  lad)-like  appreciation  of  so- 
ciety which  had  been  a  part  of  her  education. 
Her  placiid  nature  knew  no  abnormal  tenden- 
cies. She  liked  the  amu.sements  that  other 
girls  of  her  position  likcul.  She  hail  none  of 
the  eccentric  predilections  which  had  been  so 
fatal  to  her  cousin.  She  was  not  like  that 
lovely  and  illustrious  Spanish  lady  who  is  said 


to  love  the  cirque  better  than  the  opera,  and 
to  have  a  more  intense  appreciation  of  a  series 
of  flying  plunges  through  tissue-j)aper-covered 
hoops  than  of  the  most  elaborate _^'.?-tV;n-e  o( 
tenor  or  soprano.  She  gave  up  something, 
therefore,  in  resigning  the  stereotyped  gaye- 
ties  of  the  London  season.  But,  Heaven 
knows,  it  was  very  pleasant  to  her  to  make 
the  sacrifice.  Her  inclinations  were  fatted 
lambs,  whi«h  she  offered  willingly  upon  the 
altar  of  her  idol.  She  was  never  happier 
than  when  sitting  by  her  husband's  side, 
making  extracts  from  the  Blue-books,  to  be 
quoted  in  some  pamphlet  that  he  was  writing  ; 
or  if  she  was  ever  happier,  it  was  only  when 
she  sat  in  the  ladies'  gallery,  straining  her 
eyes  athwart  the  floriated  iron  fretwork, 
which  screened  her  from  any  wandering 
glances  of  distracted  members,  in  her  vain 
efforts  to  see  her  husband  in  his  place  on  the 
government  benches,  and  very  rarely  seeing 
more  than  the  crown  of  Mr.  Bidstrode's  hat. 

She  sat  by  Talbot's  side  upon  this  evening, 
busy  with  some  petty  needle-work,  ami  listen- 
ing with  patient  attention  to  her  husbands 
perusal  of  the  proof-sheets  of  his  last  pamphlet. 
It  was  a  noble  specimen  of  the  stately  and 
ponderous  stj'le  of  writing,  and  it  abounded 
in  crushing  arguments  and  niagnifictuit  cli- 
maxes, which  utterly  annihilated  somebody 
(Lucy  did  n't  exactly  make  out  who),  and 
most  incontrovertibly  established  something, 
though  Mrs.  Bulstrode  could  n't  quite  under- 
stand what.  It  was  enough  for  her  that  he 
had  written  that  wonderful  composition,  and 
that  it  was  his  rich  baritone  voice  that  rolled 
out  the  studied  Johnsonianisms.  If  he  had 
pleased  to  read  Greek  to  her,  she  would  liav* 
thought  it  pleasant  to  listen.  Indeed,  there 
were  pet  passages  of  Homer  which  Mr.  Bul- 
strode now  and  then  loved  to  recite  to  his 
wife,  and  which  the  little  hypocrite  ])retended 
to  admire.  No  cloud  had  darkened  the  calm 
heaven  of  Lucy's  married  life.  She  loved  and 
was  beloved.  It  was  a  part  of  her  natui'e  tci 
love  in  a  reverential  attitude,  and  she  had  no 
wish  to  approach  nearer  to  her  idol.  To  sit 
at  her  sultan's  feet,  and  replenish  the  rose- 
water  in  his  <-kibori(/ue ;  to  watch  him  while 
he  slept,  and  wave  the  punkah  above  his 
seraphic  head ;  to  love,  and  admire,  and 
])ray  for  him,  made  up  the  sum  of  her  heart's 
desire. 

It  was  close  upon  nine  o'clock  when  Mr. 
Bulstrode  was  Interrupted  in  the  \i!ry  crown- 
ing sentence  of  his  peroration  by  a  double 
knock  at  the  street-door.  The  houses  in 
Half-Moon  street  are  small,  and  Talbot  flung 
down  his  proof-sheet  with  a  gesture  expressive 
of  considerable  irritation.  Lucy  looked  up, 
half  sympathizlngly,  iialf  apologetically,  at 
her  lord  and  master.  She  held  herself  in  a 
manner  rcsj)onsible  for  his  ease  and  comfort. 

'■  Who  can  it  be,  dear  V"  she  murmured  ; 
"  at  such  a  time,  tool"' 


150 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


"  Some  annoyance  or  other,  I  dare  say,  my 
dear,"  answered  Talbot.  "But,  whoever  it  is, 
I  won't  see  them  to-night.  I  suppose,  Lucy, 
T  *ve  given  you  a  pretty  fair  idea  of  the  eifect 
of  this  upon  my  honorable  friend,  the  member 
for — " 

Before  Mr.  Bulstrode  could  name  the  bor- 
ough of  which  his  honorable  friend  was  the 
representative,  a  servant  announced  that  Mrs. 
Mellish  was  waiting  below  to  see  the  master 
of  the  house. 

"Aurora !"  exclaimed  Lucy,  starting  from 
her  seat  and  dropping  the  fairy  implements  of 
her  work  in  a  little  shower  upon  the  carpet ; 
"Auroral"  It  can't  be,  surely  ?  Why,  Tal- 
bot, she  only  went  back  to  Yorkshire  a  few 
days  ago." 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish  are  both  below,  I 
suppose  '?"  Mr.  Bulstrode  said  to  the  servant. 

"No,  sir;  Mrs.  Mellish  came  alone  in  a  cab 
from  the  station,  I  believe.  Mrs.  Mellish  is  in 
the  library,  sir.  I  asked  her  to  walk  up  stairs, 
but  she  requested  to  see  you  alone,  sir,  if  you 
please." 

"  I  'II  come  directly,"  answei-ed  Talbot. 
"  Tell  Mrs.  Mellish  I  will  be  with  her  immedi- 
ately." 

The  door  closed  upon  the  servant,  and  Lucy 
ran  toward  it,  eager  to  hurry  to  her  cousin. 

"  Poor  Aurora,"  she  said;  "there  must  be 
wmething  wrong,  surely.  Uncle  Archibald 
has  been  taken  ill,  perhaps ;  he  was  not  look- 
ing well  when  we  left  Felden.  I  '11  go  to 
lier,  Talbot;  I  'm  sure  she  'd  like  to  see  me 
finst." 

"No,  Lucy,  no,"  answered  Mr.  Bulstrode, 
laying  his  hand  upon  the  door,  and  standing 
between  it  and  his  wife ;  "  1  had  rather  yoii 
did  n't  see  your  cousin  until  I  have  seen  her. 
It  will  be  better  for  me  to  see  her  first."  His 
face  was  very  grave,  and  his  manner  almost 
stern  as  he  said  this.  Lucy  shrank  fi-om  him 
as  if  he  had  wounded  her.  She  understood 
him  very  vaguely,  it  is  true,  but  she  under- 
.stood  that  he  had  some  doubt  or  suspicion  of 
her  cousin,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Mr. 
Bulstrode  saw  an  angry  light  kindled  in  his 
wife's  blue  eyes. 

"  Why  should  you  prevent  my  seeing  Au- 
rora?" Lucy  asked;  "she  is  the  best  and  <lear- 
e3t  girl  in  the  world.  Why  should  n't  I  see 
her?" 

Talbot  Bulstrode  stared  in  blank  amaze- 
ment at  his  mutinous  wife. 

"Be  reasonable,  my  dear  Lucy,"  he  an- 
swered very  mildly  ;  "  I  hope  always  to  be 
able  to  respect  your  cousin  —  as  much  as  I  re- 
spect you.  But  if  Mrs.  Mellish  leaves  her 
husband  in  Yorkshire,  and  comes  to  London 
without  his  permission  —  for  he  would  never 
permit  her  to  come  alone  —  she  must,  explain 
to  me  why  she  does  so  before  I  can  suffer  my  I 
wife  to  receive  her."  i 

Poor  Lucy's  fair  head  drooped  under  this 
reproof.  I 


She  remembered  her  last  conversation  with 
her  cousin  —  that  conversation  in  which  Au- 
rora had  spoken  of  some  far-oH'  day  of  trouble 
that  might  bring  her  to  ask  for  comfort  and 
shelter  in  Half-Moon  street.  Had  the  day  of 
trouble  come  already  ? 

"  Was  it  wrong  of  Aurora  to  come  alone, 
Talbot,  dear?"  Lucy  asked,  meekly. 

"Was  it  wrong?"  repeated  Mr.  Bulstrode, 
fiercely.  "  Would  it  be  wrong  for  you  to  go 
tearing  from  here  to  Cornwall,  child  ?" 

He  was  irritated  by  the  mere  imagination  of 
such  an  outrage,  and  he  looked  at  Lucy  as  if 
he  half  suspected  her  of  some  such  intention. 

"  But  Aurora  may  have  had  some  very  par- 
ticular reason,  dear  ?"  pleaded  his  wife. 

"  I  can  not  imagine  any  reason  powerful 
enough  to  justify  such  a  proceeding,"  answer- 
ed Talbot'  "but  I  shall  be  better  able  to 
judge  of  that  when  I  've  heard  what  Mrs. 
Mellish  has  to  say.  Stay  here,  Lucy,  till  I 
send  for  you." 

"  Yes,  Talbot." 

She  obeyed  as  submissively  as  a  child;  but 
she  lingered  near  the  door,  after  her  husband 
had  closed  it  upon  her,  with  a  mournful  yearn- 
ing in  her  heart.  She  wanted  to  go  to  her 
cousin,  and  comfort  her,  if  she  had  need  of 
comfort.  She  dreaded  the  effect  of  her  hus- 
band's cold  and  passionless  manner  upon  Au- 
rora's impressionable  nature. 

Mr.  Bulstrode  went  down  to  the  library  to 
receive  his  kinswoman.  It  would  have  been 
strange  if  he  had  failed  to  remember  that 
Christmas  evening  nearly  two  years  before, 
upon  which  he  had  gone  down  to  the  shadowy 
room  at  Felden,  with  every  hope  of  his  heart 
crushed,  to  ask  for  comfort  from  the  woman 
he  loved.  It  would  have  been  strange  if,  in 
the  brief  interval  that  elapsed  between  his 
leaving  the  drawing-room  and  entering  the 
library,  his  mind  had  not  flown  back  to  that 
day  of  desolation.  If  there  was  any  infidelity 
to  Lucy  in  that  sharp  thrill  of  pain  that 
pierced  his  heart  as  the  old  memory  came 
back,  the  sin  was  as  short-lived  as  the  agony 
which  it  brought  with  it.  He  was  able  now 
to  say,  in  all  singleness  of  heart,  "  I  made  a 
wise  choice,  and  I  shall  never  repent  of  having 
made  it." 

The  library  was  a  small  apartment  at  the 
back  of  the  dining-room.  It  was  dimly  light- 
ed, for  Aurora  had  lowered  the  lamp.  She 
did  not  want  Mr.  Bulstrode  to  see  her  face. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Mellish,"  said  Talbot,  grave- 
ly, "  I  am  so  surprised  at  this  visit  that  I 
scarcely  know  how  to  say  I  am  glad  to  see 
3'ou.  I  fear  something  must  have  happened 
to  cause  your  travelling  alone.  John  is  ill, 
perhaps,  or — " 

He  might  have  said  much  more  if  Aurora 
had  not  interrupted  him  by  casting  herself 
upon  her  knees  before  him,  and  looking  up  at 
him  with  a  pale,  agonized  face,  that  seemed 
almost  ghastly  in  the  dim  lamplight. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


151 


It  was  impossible  to  describe  the  look  of 
horror  that  came  over  Talbot  Bulstrodes  face 
as  she  did  this.  It  was  the  Felden  scene  over 
again.  He  came  to  her  in  the  hope  that  she 
wouhl  justity  herself,  and  she  tacitly  acknowl- 
edged her  humiliation. 

She  was  a  guilty  woman,  then  —  a  guilty 
creature,  whom  it  would  be  his  painful  duty 
to  cast  out  of  that  jiure  household.  She  was 
a  poor,  lost,  polluted  wretch,  who  must  not  be 
admitted  into  tlie  holy  atmosphere  of  a  Chris- 
tian gentleman's  home. 

"Mrs.  Meilish!  Mrs.  Mellish !"  he  cried, 
"  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  Why  do  you 
give  me  this  horrible  ])ain  again  V  Why  do 
you  insist  upon  humiliating  yourself  and  me 
by  such  a  scene  as  this?" 

"Oh,  Talbot,  Talbot!"  answered  Aurora, 
"  I  come  to  you  because  you  are  good  and 
honorable.  I  am  a  desolate,  wretched  woman, 
and  I  want  your  help  —  I  want  your  advice. 
I  will  abide  by  it;  I  will,  Talbot  Bulstrode,  so 
help  me  Heaven!" 

Her  voice  was  broken  by  her  sobs.  In  her 
passionate  grief  and  confusion  she  forgot  that 
it  was  just  possible  such  an  appeal  as  this 
might  be  rather  bewildering  in  its  elfect  upon 
Talbot.  But  perhaps,  even  amid  his  bewil- 
derment, the  young  Cornishman  saw,  or  fan- 
cied he  saw,  something  in  Aurora's  manner 
which  had  no  fellowship  with  guilt,  or  with 
such  guilt  a?  he  had  at  first  dreaded.  I  im- 
agine that  it  must  have  been  so,  for  his  voice 
was  softer  and  his  manner  kinder  when  he 
next  addressed  her. 

"Aurora,"  he  said,  "for  yjlty's  sake  be  calm. 
Why  have  you  left  Meilish  V  What  is  the 
business  in  which  I  can  help  or  advise  you  ? 
Be  calm,  my  dear  girl,  and  I  will  try  and  un- 
derstand you.  God  knows  how  much  I  wish 
to  be  a  friend  to  you,  for  I  stand  in  a  brother's 
plact^  you  know,  my  dear,  and  demand  a 
brother's  right  to  question  your  actions.  1  am 
sorry  you  came  up  to  town  alone,  because 
such  a  step  was  calculated  to  compromise  you; 
but  if  you  will  be  calm,  and  tell  me  why  you 
came,  I  may  be  able  to  understand  your  mo- 
tives.    Come,  Auror.'.  try  antl  l)e  calm." 

She  was  still  on  her  knees,  solibing  In^steri- 
cally.  Talbot  would  have  summoned  his  wife 
to  her  assistance,  but  he  could  not  bear  to  see 
the  two  women  associated  until  he  had  discov- 
ered the  cause  of  Aurora's  agitation. 

He  poured  .some  water  into  a  glass,  and 
gave  it  her.  He  placed  her  in  an  easy-chair 
near  the  open  window,  and  then  walked  up 
and  down  the  room  until  she  had  recovered 
herself 

"Talbot  Bulstrode,"  she  said,  quietly,  after 
a  long  pause,  "  I  want  you  to  help  me  in  the 
crisis  of  my  life.  I  mu.st  be  candid  with  you, 
therefore,  and  tell  you  that  which  I  wouM 
have  died  rather  than  tell  you  two  years  ago. 
You  remember  the  night  upon  which  you  left 
Feldeu  ?" 


"Remember  it?     Yes,  yes." 

"  The  secret  which  separated  us  then,  Tal- 
bot, was  the  one  secret  of  my  life — the  secret 
of  my  disobedience,  the  secret  of  my  father's 
sorrow.  You  asked  me  to  give  you  an  ac- 
count of  that  one  year  which  was  missing  out 
of  the  histoi-y  of  my  life.  I  could  not  do  so, 
Talbot;  /  tvould  not!  My  pride  revolted 
aj^ainst  the  horrible  humiliation.  If  you  had 
discovered  the  secret  yourself,  and  had  ac- 
cused me  of  the  disgraceful  truth,  I  would 
have  attempted  no  denial;  but  with  my  own 
lips  to  utter  the  hateful  story — no,  no,  I  could 
have  borne  anything  better  than  that.  But 
now  that  my  secret  is  common  property,  in 
the  keeping  of  polioe  officers  and  stable-boys, 
I  can  afford  to  tell  you  all.  Wlien  I  left  the 
school  in  the  Rue  Saint  Dominique,  I  ran 
away  to  marry  my  father's  groom !" 

"Aurora!" 

Talbot  Bulstrode  dropped  into  the  chair 
nearest  him,  and  sat  blankly  staring  at  his 
wife's  cousin.  Was  this  the  .secret  humiliation 
which  had  prostrated  her  at  his  feet  in  the 
chamber  at  Felden  Woods? 

"  Oh,  Talbot,  how  could  I  have  told  you 
this?  How  can  I  tell  you  now  why  I  did  this 
mad  and  wicked  thing,  blighting  the  happi- 
ness of  my  youth  by  my  own  act,  and  bring- 
ing shame  and  grief  upon  my  father?  I  had 
no  romantic,  overwhelming  love  for  tliis  man. 
I  can  not  plead  the  excuses  which  some  wom- 
en urge  for  their  madness.  1  had  only  a 
school-girl's  sentimental  fancy  for  his  dashing 
manner,  only  a  school-girl's  frivolous  admira- 
tion of  his  handsome  face.  I  married  him 
because  he  had  dark  blue  eyes,  and  long  eye- 
lashes, and  white  teeth,  and  brown  hair.  He 
had  insinuated  himself  into  a  kind  of  intimacy 
with  me  by  bringing  mc  all  the  empty  gossip 
of  the  race-course,  by  extra  attention  to  my 
favorite  horses,  by  rearing  a  litter  of  puppies 
for  me.  All  these  things  brought  about  asso- 
ciations between  us;  he  was  always  my  com- 
panion in  my  rides;  and  he  contrived  before 
long  to  tell  me  his  story.  Bah !  why  should  I 
weary  you  with  it?"  cried  Aurora,  scornfully. 
"He  was  a  prince  in  disguise,  of  course;  he 
was  a  gentleman's  son;  his  father  had  kept 
his  hunters;  he  was  at  war  with  fortune;  he 
had  been  ill  used  and  trampled  down  in  the 
battle  of  life.  His  talk  was  somethiug  to  this 
effect,  and  I  believed  him.  Why  should  1 
disbelieve  him?  I  had  lived  all  my  life  in  an 
atmosphere  of  truth.  My  govt^rness  and  I 
talked  perpetually  of  the  groom's  romantic 
story.  She  was  a  silly  woman,  and  encour- 
aged my  folly;  out  of  mere  stujdtlity,  I  believe, 
and  with  no  suspicion  of  the  mischief  she  was 
doing.  We  criticised  the  grooni's  haniLsome 
face,  his  white  hands,  his  aristoiratic  mannei^. 
1  mistook  insolence  for  aristocracy;  Heaven 
help  me  I  And,  as  we  saw  scarcely  any  socie- 
ty at  that  time,  I  compared  my  faflicr's  groon> 
with  the  few  guests  who  came  to  Felden,  and 


162 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


the  town-bred  impostor  profited  by  compari- 
son with  rustic  gentlemen.  Why  sliould  I 
stay  to  account  to  you  for  my  folly,  Talbot 
Bulstrode?  I  could  never  succeed  in  doing 
so,  though  I  talked  for  a  week ;  I  can  not  ac- 
count to  myself  for  my  madness.  I  can  only 
look  back  to  that  horrible  time,  and  wonder 
why  I  was  mad." 

"  My  poor  Aurora  !  my  poor  Aurora  !" 

He  spoke  in  the  pitying  tone  with  which  he 
might  have  comforted  her  had  she  been  a 
child.  He  was  thinking  of  her  in  her  childish 
ignorance,  exposed  to  the  insidious  advances 
of  an  unscrupulous  schemer,  and  his  heart 
bled  for  the  motherless  girl. 

"  My  father  found  some  letters  written  by 
this  man,  and  discovered  that  his  daughter 
had  affianced  herself  to  his  groom.  He  made 
this  discovery  while  I  was  out  riding  with 
James  Conyers — the  groom's  name  Avas  Con- 
yers  —  and  when  I  came  home  there  was  a 
fearful  scene  between  us.  I  was  mad  enough 
and  wicked  enough  to  defend  my  conduct, 
and  to  reproach  my  father  with  the  illiberality 
of  his  sentiments.  I  went  even  farther :  I 
reminded  him  that  the  house  of  Floyd  and 
Floyd  had  had  a  very  humble  origin.  He 
took  me  to  Paris  upon  the  folloAving  day.  I 
thought  myself  cruelly  treated.  I  revolted 
against  the  ceremonial  monotony  of  the  pen- 
sloii ;  I  hated  the  studies,  which  were  ten 
times  more  difficult  than  anything  I  had  ever 
experienced  with  my  governess;  I  suffered 
terribly  from  the  conventual  seclusion,  for  I 
had  been  used  to  perfect  freedom  among  the 
country  roads  round  Felden  ;  and,  amid  all 
this,  the  groom  pursued  me  with  letters  and 
messages,  for  he  had  followed  me  to  Paris, 
and  spent  his  money  recklessly  in  bribing  the 
servants  and  hangers-on  of  the  school.  He 
was  playing  for  a  high  stake,  and  he  played 
so  desperately  that  he  won.  I  ran  away  from 
school,  and  married  him  at  Dover,  within 
eight  or  nine  hours  of  my  escape  from  the 
Rue  Saint  Dominique." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  was 
silent  for  some  time. 

"  Heaven  have  pity  upon  my  wretched  ig- 
norance !"  she  said  at  last ;  "  the  illusion  under 
which  I  had  married  this  man  ended  in  about 
a  week.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I  discovered 
that  I  was  the  victim  of  a  mercenary  wretch, 
who  meant  to  use  me  to  the  uttermost  as  a 
means  of  wringing  money  from  my  father. 
For  some  time  I  submitted,  and  my  father 
paid,  and  paid  dearly,  for  his  daughter's  folly; 
out  he  refused  to  receive  the  man  I  had  mar- 
ried, or  to  see  me  until  I  separated  my- 
self from  that  man.  He  offered  the  groom 
an  income  on  the  condition  of  his  going  to 
Australia,  and  resigning  all  association  with 
me  for  ever.  But  the  man  had  a  higher  game 
to  play.  He  wanted  to  bring  about  a  recon- 
ciliation with  my  father,  and  he  thought  that 
in  due  time  that  tender  father's   resolution 


would  have  yielded  to  the  force  of  his  love. 
It  was  little  better  than  a  year  after  our  mar- 
riage that  I  made  a  discovery  that  transformed 
me  in  one  moment  from  a  girl  into  a  woman 
—  a  revengeful  woman,  perhaps,  Mr.  Bul- 
strode. I  discovered  that  I  had  been  wron<r- 
ed,  deceived,  and  outraged  by  a  wretch  who 
laughed  at  my  ignorant  confidence  in  him.  I 
had  learned  to  hate  the  man  long  before  this 
occurred;  I  had  learned  to  despise  his  shallow 
trickeries,  his  insolent  pretensions ;  but  I  do 
not  think  I  fult  his  deeper  infamy  the  less 
keenly  for  that.  We  were  travelling  in  the 
iouth  of  France,  my  husband  playing  the 
great  gentleman  upon  my  father's  money, 
when  this  discovery  was  made  by  me  —  or 
not  by  me;  for  it  was  forced  upon  me  by  a 
woman  who  knew  my  story  and  pitied  me. 
Within  half  an  hour  of  obtaining  this  knowl- 
edge, I  acted  upon  it.  I  wrote  to  James  Con- 
yei's,  telling  him  I  had  discovered  that  which 
gave  me  the  right  to  call  upon  the  law  to  re- 
lease me  from  him;  and  if  I  refrained  from 
doing  so,  it  was  for  my  father's  sake,  and  not 
for  his.  I  told  him  that  so  long  as  he  left  me 
unmolested,  and  kept  my  secret,  I  would  remit 
him  money  from  time  to  time.  I  told  him  that 
I  left  him  to  the  associations  he  had  chos- 
en for  himself,  and  that  my  only  prayer  was 
that  God,  in  His  mercy,  might  grant  me  com- 
plete forgetfulness  of  him.  I'  left  this  letter 
for  him  with  the  co?icier/fe,  and  quitted  the 
hotel  in  such  a  nianner  as  to  prevent  his  ob- 
taining any  trace  of  the  way  I  had  gone.  I 
stopped  in  Paris  for  a  few  days,  waiting  for  a 
reply  to  a  letter  I  had  written  to  my  father, 
telling  him  that  James  Conyers  was  dead. 
Perhaps  that  was  the  worst  sin  of  my  life, 
Talbot.  I  deceived  my  father ;  but  I  believ- 
ed that  I  was  doing  a  wise  and  merciful  thing 
in  setting  his  mind  at  rest.  He  would  have 
never  been  happy  so  long  as  he  had  believed 
the  man  lived.  You  understand  all  now,  Tal- 
bot," she  said  mournfully.  "  You  remember 
the  morning  at  Brighton  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes ;  and  the  newspaper  with  the 
marked  paragraph — the  report  of  the  jockey's 
death." 

"  That  report  was  false,  Talbot  Bulstrode," 
cried  Aurora.  "  James  Conyers  was  not 
killed." 

Talbot's  face  grew  suddenly  pale.  He  be- 
gan to  understand  something  of  the  nature 
of  that  trouble  which  had  brought  Aurora  to 
him. 

"  What !  he  was  still  living,  then  ?"  he  said, 
anxiously. 

"  Yes ;  until  the  night  before  last  ?" 

"  But  where  —  where  has  he  been  all  this 
time  ?" 

"  During  the  last  ten  days  at  Mellish  Park." 

She  told  him  the  terrible  story  of  the  mur- 
der. The  trainer's  death  had  not  yet  been 
reported  in  the  London  papers.  Slie  told 
him  the  dreadful  story  ;  and  then,  looking  up 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


153 


at  liim  with  an  earnest,  imploring  face,  as  she 
might  have  done  had  he  been  indeed  lier 
brother,  she  entreated  him  to  help  and  coun- 
sel her  in  this  terrible  hour  of  need. 

"  Teach  me  how  to  do  what  is  best  for  my 
dear  love,"  she  said.  '•  Don't  think  of  me  or 
my  happiness,  Talbot;  think  only  of  him.  I 
will  make  any  sacrifice;  I  will  submit  to  any- 
thing. 1  want  to  atone  to  my  poor  dear  tor 
all  the  misery  I  have  brought  upon  him." 

Talbot  Bulstrode  did  not  make  any  reply  to 
this  earnest  appeal.  The  administrative  pow- 
ers of  liis  mind  were  at  work;  he  was  busy 
summing  up  facts,  and  setting  them  before  him, 
in  order  to  grapple  with  them  fairly,  and  ho 
had  no  attention  to  waste  upon  sentiment  or 
emotion.  He  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  with  his  eyebrows  knitted  sternly  over 
his  cold  gray  eyes,  and  his  head  bent. 

"  Mow  many  jjoople  know  this  secret,  Auro- 
ra?" he  asked,  presently. 

'•  I  ean't  tell  you  that ;  but  I  fear  it  must  be 
very  generally  known,"  answered  Mr.s.  Mel- 
lish,  with  a  shuddering  recollection  of  the 
softy's  insolence.  "  I  heard  of  the  discovery 
that  had  been  made  from  a  hanger-on  of  the 
stables,  a  man  who  hates  me  —  a  man  whom 
I  —  had  a  misunderstanding  with." 

'•  Have  you  any  idea  who  it  was  that  sliot 
this  Couyers  V" 

"  No,  not  the  least  idea." 

'•  You  do  not  even  gue.ss  at  any  one  ?" 

"No." 

Talbot  took  a  few  more  turns  up  and  down 
the  small  apartment,  in  evident  trouble  and 
perplexity  of  mind.  He  left  the  room  pres- 
ently, and  called  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  : 

"  Lucy,  my  dear,  come  down  to  your 
cousin." 

I  'm  afraid  Mis.  Bulstrode  must  have  been 
lurking  somewhere  about  the  outside  of  the 
drawing-ronui  door,  for  she  flew  down  the 
stairs  at  the  sound  of  the  strong  voice,  and 
was  by  her  Iiusband's  side  two  or  three  .seconds 
after  he  had  spoken. 

"  Oh,  Talbot,"  she  said,  "  how  long  you 
have  been  !  I  thought  you  would  never  send 
for  me.  \Vhat  has  been  the  matter  with  my 
poor  darling  V" 

"  Go  in  to  her,  and  comfort  her,  my  detir," 
Mr.  Bulstrode  answered,  gravely ;  "  she  has 
had  enough  trouble.  Heaven  knows,  j)Oor  girl. 
Don't  ask  her  any  questions,  Lucy,  but  make 
her  as  conUortable  as  yon  can,  and  give  her 
the  best  room  you  can  find  for  her.  She  will 
stay  with  us  as  long  as  she  remains  in  town." 

"  Dear,  dear  Talbot,"  nnirmured  the  young 
Cornishman's  grateful  worsliii)per,  "  how  kind 
you  are  I" 

"Kind!"  cried  Mr.  Bulstrode;  "she  has 
need  of  friends,  Lucy ;  and,  (io<l  knows,  I 
will  act  the  brother's  jtart  tx)ward  her,  faith- 
fully and  bravely.  Yes,  bravely,"  he  added, 
raising  his  head  with  an  almo-st  defiant  gesture 
as  he  slowly  ascended  the  staiiis. 


I  What  was  the  dark  cloud  which  he  saw 
;  brooding  so  fatally  over  the  far  horizon ':' 
;  He  dared  not  think  of  what  it  was  —  he 
i  dared  not  even  acknowledge  its  presence; 
but  there  was  a  sense  of  trouble  and  horror 
;  in  his  breast  that  told  him  the  shadow  was 
j  there. 

Lucy  Bulstrode  ran   into  the  library,  and 
!  flung  herself  upon    her  cousin's  breast,  and 
;  wept    with    her.      She  did  not  ask    the    nat- 
I  ure   of  the  sorrow    which  had   brought    Au- 
rora an  Tuicxpected  and  uninviteil    guest  to 
[  that  modest  little  dwelling-house.     She  only 
knew   that   her   cousin   was   in  trouble,  and, 
I  that  it  was  her  happy  privilege  to  offer  her 
shelter   and    consolation.       She    would    have 
;  fought  a  sturdy  battle  in  defence  of  this  privi- 
i  lege ;    but   she    ailored    her   husljand   for   the 
I  generosity  which  had  granted  it  to  her  with- 
I  out  a  struggle.     For  tlie  first  time  in  her  life, 
I  poor,  gentle   Lacy   took  a  in'w  position  with 
her  cousin.     It  was  her  turn  to  protect  Auro- 
ra; it  was  her  turn  to  display  a  pretty  moth- 
I  erly    tenderness    for    the    desolate    creature 
whose  aching  head  rested  on  her  bosom. 

The  West-End  clocks  were  striking  three, 
in  the  dead  middle  of  the  night,  when  Mrs. 
Mellish  fell  into  a  feverish  slumber,  even  in 
her  sleep  repeating  again  and  again,  "  My 
poor  John  !  my  poor,  dear  love  !  what  will 
become  of  him!  mv  own  faithful  darlini;!" 


CHAPTER  XXXL 

TALBOT    BULSTKODK's    AUVICK. 

Talbot  Bul.strode  went  out  early  upon  the 
(juiet  Sunday  morning  after  Aurora's  anival, 
and  walked  down  to  the  Telegraph  Com- 
pany's Oliiie  at  Charing  CroiJs,  whence  he 
despatched  a  message  to  Mr.  John  Mellish. 
It  was  a  very  brief  message,  only  telling  Mr. 
Mellish  to  come  to  town  without  delay,  and 
that  he  would  find  Aurora  in  Half-Moon 
street.  Mr.  Bulstrode  walked  quietly  home- 
ward in  tiie  morning  sunshine  after  having 
performed  this  duty.  Kven  the  London 
streets  were  bright  and  dewy  in  that  early 
sunlight,  for  it  was  only  a  little  after  seven 
o'clock,  and  the  fresh  morning  breezes  came 
swec[)ing  over  the  house-tops,  bringing  health 
and  purity  from  .Shooter's  Hill  and  Ilighgate, 
Streatham  and  Barnsbury,  Kiclimoud  and 
Hami)stea<l.  The  white  morning  mists  were 
slowly  melting  from  the  worn  grass  in  the 
(ireen  Park  ;  ami  weary  creatures,  who  had 
had  no  better  shelter  than  the  (juiet  sky, 
wfcie  creeping  away  to  find  such  wretched 
resting-places  as  they  might,  in  that  frve  city, 
in  whiili  to  sit  for  an  unrrasonable  time  upon 
a  door-step,  or  to  ask  a  rich  citizen  for  the 
price  of  a  loaf,  is  to  commit  an  indictable 
ofTence. 

Surely  it  was  impoiisiblc  for  any  young  lef2[is- 


154 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


lator  not  quite  worn  out  by  a  life-long  strug- 
gle with  the  time  wliich  was  never  meant  to 
be  set  right  —  surely  it  was  impossible  for  any 
fresh-hearted,  prosperous  young  Liberal-  to 
walk  through  those  quiet  streets  without 
thinking  of  these  things.  Talbot  Bulstrode 
thought  very  earnestly  and  very  mourufiillv. 
To  what  end  were  his  labors,  after  all  V  lie 
was  fighting  for  a  liandful  of  Cornish  miners; 
doing  battle  with  the  rampant  spirit  of  cir- 
cumlocution for  the  sake  of  a  few  benighted 
wretches,  buried  in  the  darkness  of  a  black 
abyss  of  ignorance  a  hundred  times  deeper 
and  darker  than  the  material  obscurities  in 
which  they  labored.  He  was  working  his 
best  and  liis  hardest  that  these  men  miglit  be 
taught,  in  some  easy,  unambitious  manner, 
the  simplest  elements  of  Christian  love  and 
Christian  duty.  He  was  working  for  these 
poor  far-away  creatures,  in  their  forgotten 
corner  of  the  earth  ;  and  here,  around  and 
about  him,  was  ignorance  more  terrible,  be- 
cause, hand  in  hand  with  ignorance  of  all 
good,  there  was  the  fatal  experience  of  all 
evil.  The  simple  Cornish  miner  who  uses  his 
pickaxe  in  the  region  of  his  friend's  skull 
when  he  wishes  to  enforce  an  argument,  does 
so  because  he  knows  no  other  species  of 
emphasis.  But  In  the  London  universities  of 
crime,  knavery,  and  vice,  and  violence,  and 
sin  matriculate  and  graduate  day  by  day,  to 
take  their  degrees  in  the  felon's'  dock  or  on 
the  scaffold.  How  could  he  be  otherwise  than 
sorrowful,  thinking  of  these  things  ?  Were 
Sodom  and  Gomorrah  worse  than  this  city,  in 
which  there  were  yet  so  many  good  and  ear- 
nest men  laboring  patiently  day  by  day,  and 
taking  little  rest  ?  "Was  the  gi'eat  accumulation 
of  evil  so  heavy  that  it  rolled  for  ever  back 
upon  these  untiring  SIsyphuses  ?  Or  did  they 
make  some  imperceptible  advance  toward  the 
mountain-top,  despite  of  all  discouragement? 

_  Uith  this  weary  question  debating  itself  in 
his  brain,  Mr.  Bulstrode  walked  along  Picca- 
dilly toward  the  comfortable  bachelor's  quarr 
ters,  whose  most  commonplace  attributes  Lucy 
had  turned  to  favor  and  to  prettlness;  but  at 
the  door  of  the  Gloucester  CofFee-house  Tal- 
bot paused  to  stare  absently  at  a  nervous- 
looking  chestnut  mare,  who  insisted  upon 
going  through  several  lively  performances 
upon  her  hind  legs,  very  much  to  the  annoy- 
ance of  an  unshaven  ostler,  and  not  particular- 
ly to  the  advantage  of  a  smart  little  dog-cart 
to  which  she  was  harnessed. 

"  You  need  n't  pull  her  mouth  to  pieces,  my 
man,"  cried  a  voice  from  the  doorway  of  the 
hotel;  "use  her  gently,  and  she  '11  soon  quiet 
herself.  Steady,  my  girl,  steady!"  added  the 
owner  of  this  voice,  walking  to  the  dog-cart 
as  he  spoke. 

Talbot  had  good  reason  to  stop  short,  for 
this  gentleman  was  Mr.  John  Mellish,  whose 
pale  face,  and  loose,  disordered  hair  betokened 
a  sleepless  night. 


He  was  going  to  spring  into  the  dog-cart 
when  his  old  friend  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  This  is  rather  a  lucky  accident,  John, 
for  you  're  the  very  person  I  want  to  see," 
said  Mr.  Bulstrode.  "I  've  just  telegraphed 
to  you." 

John  MclHsh  stared  with  a  blank  face. 

"  Dont  hinder  me,  please, '  he  said ;  I  '11 
talk  to  you  by  and  by.  I  '11  call  upon  you  in 
a  day  or  two.  I  'm  just  off  to  Felden.  I  've 
only  been  in  town  an  hour  and  a  half,  and 
should  have  gone  down  before  if  I  had  not 
been  afraid  of  knocking  up  the  family." 

He  made  another  attempt  to  get  into  the 
vehicle,  but  Talbot  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"You  need  n't  go  to  Feldeu,"  he  said; 
vour  wife  's  much  nearer." 

"Eh?" 

'•  She  's  at  my  house.  Come  and  have  some 
breakfast." 

There  was  no  shadow  upon  Talbot  Bul- 
strode's  mind  as  his  old  school-fellow  caught 
him  by  the  hand,  and  nearly  dislocated  his 
wrist  in  a  paroxysm  of  joy  and  gratitude.  It 
was  impos:sIble  for  him  to  look  beyond  that 
sudden  burst  of  sunshine  upon  John's  face. 
If  Mr.  Mellish  had  been  separated  irom  his 
wife  for  ten  years,  and  had  just  returned  from 
the  Antipodes  for  the  sole  purpose  of  seeing 
her  again,  he  could  scarcely  have  appeared 
moi-e  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  a  speedy 
meeting. 

"  Aurora  here!"  he  said  ;  "  at  your  house  ? 
My  dear  old  fellow,  you  can't  mean  it.  But, 
of  course,  I  ought  fo  have  known  she  'd  come 
to  you.  She  could  n't  have  done  anything 
better  or  wiser,  after  having  been  so  foolish  as 
to  doubt  me." 

"  She  came  to  me  for  advice,  John.  She 
wanted  me  to  advise  her  how  to  act  for  your 
happiness  —  yours,  you  great  Yorkshlreman, 
and  not  her  own." 

"  Bless  her  noble  heart!"  cried  Mr.  Mellish, 
huskily.     "  And  you  told  her  — '' 

"  I  told  her  nothing,  my  dear  fellow ;  but  I 
tell  you  to  take  your  lawyer  down  to  Doctor's 
Commons  with  you  to-morrow  morning,  get  a 
new  license,  and  marry  your  wife  for  the  sec- 
ond time,  in  some  quiet  little  out-of-the-way 
church  in  the  city." 

Aurora  had  risen  very  early  upon  that 
peaceful  Sunday  morning.  The  few  hours  of 
feverish  and  fitful  sleep  had  brought  very  lit- 
tle comfort  to  her.  She  stood  with  her  weary 
head  leaning  against  the  window-frame,  and 
looked  hopelessly  out  into  the  empty  London 
street.  She  looked  out  into  the  desolate  be- 
ginning of  a  new  life,  the  blank  unceftainty 
of  an  unknown  future.  All  the  minor  miser- 
ies peculiar  to  a  toilet  in  a  strange  room  were 
doubly  miserable  to  her.  Lucy  had  brought 
the  poor  luggageless  traveller  all  the  para- 
phernalia of  the  toilet-table,  and  had  arranged 
everything  with  her  own  busy  hands.  But 
the  most  insignificant  trifle  that  Aurora  touch- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


155 


eti  in  her  cousin's  chamber  brought  back  the 
memory  of  some  costly  toy  chosen  for  her 
by  her  husband.  She  had  travelled  in  her 
white  morning-dress,  and  the  soft  lace  and 
muslin  were  none  the  fresher  for  her  journey  ; 
but  as  two  of  Lucy's  dresses  joined  together 
would  have  scarcely  fitted  her  stately  cousin, 
Mrs.  Mellish  was  fain  to  be  content  with  her 
limp  muslin.  What  did  it  matter  ?  The  lov- 
ing eyes  which  noted  every  shred  of  ribbon, 
every  morsel  of  lace,  every  fold  of  her  gar- 
ments, were,  perhaps,  never  to  look  upon  her 
again.  She  twisted  her  hair  into  a  careless 
mass  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  had  com- 
pleted her  toilet  when  Lucy  came  to  the 
door,  tenderly  anxious  to  know  how  she  had 
slept. 

'•  I  Avill  abide  by  Talbot's  decision,"  she  re- 
peated to  herself  again  and  again.     "  If  he 
says  it  is  best  for   my  dear   that  we  should 
part,  J  will  go  away  for  ever.     I  will  ask  my  ] 
tather  to  take  me  far  away,  and  my  poor  dar-  j 
ling  .shall  not  even  know  where  I  have  gone. 
I  v/ill  be  true  in  what  I  do,  and  will  do  it  j 
thoroughly."  , 

She  looked  to  Talbot  Bulstrode  as  a  wise 
judge,  to  whose  sentence  she  would  be  will-  [ 
ing  to  submit.     Perhaps  she  did  this  because 
her  own  heart  kept  for  ever  repeating.  "  Go  ' 
back  to  the  man  who  loves  you.     (to  back,  go 
back!     There  is  no  wrong  you  can  do  him  so  [ 
bitter  as  to  desert  him.     There  is  no  unhap- 
piness  you  can  bring  upon  iiim  equal  to  the  ; 
unhappines^  of  losing  you.     Let  me  be  your 
guide.     (lo  back,  go  back!"  i 

But  this  seKish  monitor  must  not  be  listened  | 
to.     llovv  bitterly  this  poor  girl,  so  old  In  ex-  ' 
pcrience   of  sorrow,   remembered    the    selfish  ! 
sin  of  her  mad  marriage !    She  iiail  rel'used  to  : 
.sacrifice  a  school-girl's  foolisii    delusion  ;    she  j 
had  disobeyed  the  lather  who  had  given  her 
seventeen  years  of  patient  love  and  (levotion;  ] 
and  she  looked  at  ail  tiie  misery  of  her  youth  j 
as  the  fatal  growtli  ui'  this  evil  seed,  so  rebel-  i 
liously  !>-own.     Surely  .such  a  lesson  was  not 
to  be  altogether  unheeded!     Surely    it    was 
powerful    enough    to    teach    her   the  duty  of 
sacrifice!     It   was    this    thougiit    that  steeled 
her  against  the  pleadings  of  her  own   afiec- 
tion      It  was  for  thi.s  that  she  looked  to  Tal- 
bot   Bulstrode    as   the   arbiter   of  her  future. 
Had  .she  been  a  Roman  Catholic,  she  would 
have  gone  to  her  confessor,  and  ajjpealeil  to  a 
priest — who,  having  no  social  ties  of  his  own. 
must,  of  course,  be  the  best  judge  of  all  the 
duties   involved   in    domestic    relation.s  —  for 
comfort    and   succor;    but,    In-Ing    of  anotiier 
faith,  she  went  to  the  man  whom  she  most  re- 
spected,  and  who.  being  a  hu.4)and  himself, 
might,  as  she  thought,  be  able  to  comprehend 
the  duty  that  was  due  to  her  husband. 

She  went  down  stairs  with  Lucy  Into  a  little  1 
inner  room  upon  tin-  drawing-room  floor — a 
snug  apartment,  opening  Into  a  mite  of  a  con- 
servatory.    It  waa  Mr.  and  Mis.  Bulstrode's 


habit  to  breakfast  In  this  cosy  little  chamber 
rather  than  in  that  awful  temple  of  slippery 
morocco,  i'uuereal  bronze,  and  ghastly  mahog- 
any, which  upholsterers  insist  upon  as  the 
only  legiti^nate  place  in  which  an  English- 
man may  take  his  meals.  Lucy  loved  to  sit 
opposite  her  husband  at  the  small  round  table, 
and  minister  to  his  morning  ap])etite  from  her 
pretty  breakfast  c(iulp.vge  of  silver  and  china. 
Slie  knew  —  to  the  smallest  weight  employed 
at  Apothecarlt^s'  llall,  I  think  —  how  much 
sugar  Mr.  Bulstrode  liked  In  his  tea.  She 
l)Oured  the  cream  into  his  cup  as  carefully  as 
if  she  had  been  making  up  a  prescription.  He 
took  the  simi)le  beverage  in  a  great  shallow 
breakfast-cup  of  i'ragiie  turquoise  Sevres,  that 
had  cost  seven  guineas,  and  had  been  made 
for  Madame  du  Barry,  the  rococo  merchant 
had  told  Tall)ot.  (Mad  his  (.ustomer  been  a 
lady,  I  fear  Marie  Antoinette  woulil  have 
been  described  as  the  original  possessor  of 
the  porcelain.)  Mrs.  Bulstrode  loved  to  min- 
ister to  her  husband.  She  picked  the  bloated 
livers  of  martyred  geese  out  of  the  Strasburgh 
pics  for  his  delectation  ;  she  spread  tlie  butter 
upon  his  dry  toast,  and  |)ampered  and  waited 
on  him,  serving  him  as  only  such  women  serve 
tho.'w  i»lols.  But  this  morning  she  had  her 
cousin's  sorrows  to  comfort,  and  she  establish- 
ed Aurora  in  a  capacious  chintz-covered  uasy- 
chair  on  the  threshold  of  the  conservatory, 
and  seated  herself  at  her  fei't. 

"  My  poor,  pale  darling,"  she  said,  tenderly, 
"what  can  I  do  to  bring  the  roses  back  to 
your  cheeks  ?" 

"  Love  me,  and  pity  me,  dear,"  Aurora  an- 
swered, gravely,  "but  don't  ask  me  any  (pies- 
tions." 

The  two  women  sat  thus  for  some  time, 
Aurora's  haudsomi.'  ln-ad  bent  over  Lucy's 
fair  face,  and  her  hand  clasped  in  both  Lucy's 
hands.  They  talked  very  little,  and  only 
spoke  then  of  indifferent  matters,  or  of  Lucy's 
happiness  and  Talbot's  parliamentary  career. 
The  little  clock  over  the  chlmney-[)iece  struck 
the  quarter  before  eight;  they  were  very 
eai'ly,  these  unfashionable  peojile ;  and  a  min- 
ute afterward  Mrs.  Bulstrode  heard  her  hus- 
band's step  upon  the  stairs,  returning  from 
his  ante-breakfast  walk.  It  was  his  liabit  to 
take  a  constitutional  stroll  in  the  (ireen  Park 
now  and  then,  .so  Lucy  had  thought  nothing 
of  this  early  excursion. 

"  Talbot  has  let  himself  in  with  his  latch- 
key," said  Mrs.  Bulstrode,  "  and  I  may  pour 
out  the  tea,  Aurora.  But  listen,  dear;  I 
think  there  's  some  one  with  him."' 

There  was  no  need  to  bid  Aurora  listen ; 
she  had  started  from  her  low  seat,  and  stootl 
erect  and  motionless,  breathing  in  a  rjuick, 
agitated  manner,  and  looking  towanl  the 
door.  Beside.s  Tnlbot  Bulstrode'.'*  step  there 
was  another,  quicker  and  heavier  —  a  step 
she  knew  .so  well. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  Talbot  entered 


156 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


the  room,  followed  by  a  visitor,  who  pushed 
aside  his  host  with  very  little  attention  to  the 
laws  of  civilized  society,  and,  indeed,  nearly 
drove  Mr.  Bulstrode  backward  into  a  gilded 
basket  of  tlowers.  But  this  stalwart  John 
Mellish  had  no  intention  ofbeint;  unmannerly 
or  brutal.  He  pushed  aside  liis  friend  only 
as  he  would  have  pushed,  or  tried  to  push, 
aside  a  re2;iment  of  soldiei-s  with  fixed  bayo- 
nets, or  a  Lancaster  gun,  or  a  raging  ocean,  or 
any  other  impediment  that  had  come  between 
him  and  Aurora.  He  had  her  in  his  arms  be- 
fore she  could  even  cry  his  name  aloud  in  her 
glad  surprise,  and  in  another  moment  she  was 
sobbing  on  his  breast. 

"  My  darling!  my  pet!  my  own  !"  he  cried, 
smoothing  her  dark  hair  with  his  broad  hand, 
and  blessing  her,  and  weeping  over  her — "  mv 
own  love !  How  could  you  do  this  ?  how 
could  you  wrong  mc  so  much  y  My  own 
precious  darling !  had  you  learned  to  know 
me  no  better  than  ihh  in  all  our  happy  mar- 
ried life  ?" 

"  I  came  to  ask  Talbot's  advice,  John,"  she 
said,  earnestly,  "  and  I  mean  to  abide  by  it, 
however  cruel  it  may  seem." 

Mr.  Bulstrode  smiled  gravely  as  he  watched 
these  two  foolish  people.  He  was  very  much 
pleased  with  his  part  in  the  little  domestic 
drama,  and  he  contemplated  them  with  a  sub- 
lime consciousness  of  being  the  author  of  all 
this  happiness;  for  they  were  happy.  The 
poet  has  said,  there  are  some  moments  —  very 
rare,  very  precious,  very  brief — whi(di  stand 
by  themselves,  and  have  their  perfect  fulness 
of  joy  within  their  own  fleeting  span,  taking 
nothing  from  tlie  past,  demanding  nothing  of 
the  future.  Had  John  and  Aurora  known 
that  they  were  to  be  separated  by  the  breadth 
of  Europe  for  the  remainder  of  their  several 
lives,  they  would  not  the  less  have  wejjt  joyful 
tears  at  the  pure  blissfulness  of  this  meeting. 

"  You  asked  me  for  my  advice,  Aurora," 
said  Talbot,  "  and  I  bring'it  to  you.  Let  the 
past  die  with  the  man  who  died  the  other 
night.  Tiie  future  is  not  yours  to  dispose  of; 
it  belongs  to  your  husband,  John  Mellish." 

Having  delivered  himself  of  these  oracular 
sentences,  Mr.  Bulstrode  seated  himself  .at 
the  breakfast-table,  and  looked  into  the  mys- 
terious and  cavernous  interior  of  a  raised  pie 
with  such  an  intent  gaze  that  it  seemed  as  if 
he  never  meant  to  look  out  of  it.  H(!  devoted 
so  many  minutes  to  this  serious  contempla- 
tion that  by  the  time  he  looked  up  again 
Aurora  had  become  quite  calm,  while  "Mr. 
Mellish  affected  an  unnatural  gayety,  and 
exhibited  no  stronger  sign  of  past  emotion 
than  a  certain  inflamed  appearance  in  the 
region  of  his  eyelids. 

But  this  stalwart,  devoted,  impressionable 
Yorkshirenian  ate  a  most  extraordmary  repast' 
in  honor  of  this  reunion.     He  spread  mustard 
on  his  muffins.     He  poured  Worcester  sauce 
into  his  coflfee,  and  cream  over   his    deviled 


cutlets.  He  showed  his  gratitude  to  Lucy  by 
loading  her  plate  with  comestibles  she  did  n't 
want.  He  talked  perpetually,  and  devoured 
incongruous  viands  in  utter  absence  of  mind. 
He  shook  hands  with  Talbot  so  many  times 
across  the  breakfast-talile  that  he  exposed  the 
lives  or  limbs  of  the  whole  party  to  imminent 
peril  from  the  boiling  water  in  the  urn.  He 
threw  himself  into  a  paroxysm  of  coughing, 
and  made  himself  scarlet  in  the  face  by  an 
injudicious  use  of  Cayenne  pepper ;  and  he  ex- 
hibited himself  altogether  in  such  an  imbecile 
light,  that  Talbot  Bulstrode  was  compelled  to 
have  recourse  to  all  sorts  of  expedients  to 
keep  the  servants  out  of  the  room  during  the 
progress  of  that  rather  noisy  and  bewildering 
repast. 

The  Sunday  papers  were  brought  to  the 
master  of  the  house  before  breakfast  was  over; 
and  while  John  talked,  ate,  and  gesticulated, 
Mr.  Bulstrode  hid  himself  behind  the  open 
leaves  of  the  Weekly  •Dispatch,  reading  a  par- 
agraph that  appeared  in  that  journal. 

This  paragraph  gave  a  brief  account  of  the 
murder  and  the  inquest  at  Mellish,  and  wound 
up  by  that  rather  stereotyped  sentence,  in 
which  the  public  are  informed  that  "  the  local 
police  are  giving  unremitting  attention  to  the 
affair,  and  we  think  we  may  venture  to  affirm 
that  they  have  obtained  a  clew  whicli  will 
most  probably  lead  to  the  early  discovery  of 
the  guilty  party." 

Talbot  Bulstrode,  with  the  newspaper  still 
before  his  face,  sat  for  some  little  time  frown- 
ing darkly  at  the  page  upon  which  this  para- 
graph api)eared.  The  horrible  shadow,  Avhose 
nature  he  would  not  acknowledge  even  to 
himself,  once  more  lowered  upon  the  horizon 
which  had  just  seemed  so  bright  and  clear. 

"  I  would  give  a  thousand  pounds,"  he 
thought,  "  if  I  could  find  the  murderer  of  this 


CHAPTER  XXXH. 


ON    TUK    WATCH. 


Very  soon  after  breakfast  upon  that  happ}" 
Sabbath  of  reunion  and  contentment,  John 
Mellish  drove  Aurora  to  Felden  Woods.  It 
was  necessary  that  Archibald  Floyd  should 
hear  the  story  of  tlie  trainer's  deatl^  from  the 
lips  of  his  own  children,  before  newspaper 
paragraphs  terrified  him  with  some  imperfect 
outline  of  the  truth. 

The  dashing  phaeton  in  which  Mr.  Bul- 
strode was  in  the  habit  of  driving  his  wife 
was  brought  to  the  door  as  the  church-bells 
were  calling  devout  citizens  to  their  moi-ning 
duties,  and  at  that  unseemly  hour  John  Mel- 
lish smacked  his  whip,  and  dashed  off  in  the 
direction  of  Westminster  Bridge. 

Talbot  Bulstrode's  horses  soon  left  London 
behind  them,  and  before  long  the  phaeton 
was  driving  upon   the   trim  park-like  roads, 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


157 


overshadowed  by  luxuriant  foliage,  and  bor- 
dered here  and  there  by  exquisitely-ordered 
gardens  and  rustic  villas,  that  glittered  whitely 
in  the  sunshine.  The  holy  peace  of  the  quiet 
Sabbath  was  upon  every  objeet  that  tliey 
passed,  even  upon  the  leaves  and  flowers,  as 
it  seemed  to  Aurora.  The  birds  sang  sub- 
dued and  murmuring  harmonies ;  the  light 
summer  breeze  soarL-ely  stirreil  tiie  deep  grass 
on  which  the  lazy  cattle  stood  to  watch  the 
phaeton  dasli  by. 

Ah  !  how  happy  Aurora  was,  seated  by  the 
side  of  the  man  who'se  love  had  outlasted 
every  trial !  How  liappy  now  tliat  the  dark 
wall  that  had  divided  them  was  shattered, 
and  they  were  indeed  united!  John  IMellish 
was  as  tender  and  pitying  toward  her  as  a 
mother  to  her  forgiven  child.  He  asked  no 
explanations;  he  sought  to  know  nothing  of 
the  past.  He  was  content  to  believe  that  she 
had  been  Ibolish  and  mistaken,  and  that  the 
mistake  and  folly  of  her  life  would  be  buried 
in  the  grave  of  the  murdered  trainer.   . 

The  lodge -keeper  at  Fehlen  Woods  ex- 
claimed as  he  opened  the  gates  to  his  master's 
daughter.  He  was  an  old  man,  and  he  had 
opened  the  same  gates  more  than  twenty  years 
before,  when  the  banker's  <lark-eyed  bride  had 
first  entered  her  husbau'l's  mansion. 

Archibald  Floyd  welcomed  his  children 
heartily.  How  could  he  ever  be  otherwise 
than  unutterably  liajjpy  in  the  presence  of 
his  darling,  however  often  she  might  come, 
with  whatever  eccentricity  she  might  time 
her  visits? 

Mrs.  Mellish  led  her  father  into  his  study. 

"  I  must  speak  to  you  alone,  papa."  she  said ; 
"but  John  knows  all  I  have  to  say.  Tiiere 
are  no  secrets  between  us  now.  There  never 
will  be  again." 

Aurora  had  a  painful  story  to  tell  her  father, 
for  she  had  to  confess  to  him  that  she  had 
deceived  him  upon  the  occasion  of  her  re- 
turn to  Felden  after  her  j)arting  with  James 
Conyers. 

"  I  told  you  a  story,  father,"  she  said,  "  when 
I  told  you  that  my  husband  was  dead.  But, 
Heaven  know.s,  I  believed  that  I  sliould  be  for- 
given the  sin  of  that  falsehood,  for  I  thought 
that  it  would  spare  you  grief  and  trouble  of 
mind,  and  surely  anytln'ng  wouUl  have  been 
justifiable  that  could  have  done  tliat.  I  sup- 
pose good  never  can  come  (jut  of  evil,  for  I 
have  been  bitterly  punished  for  my  sin.  I  re- 
ceived a  newspaper  within  a  few  months  of 
my  return  in  which  there  was  a  paragraph 
describing  the  death  of  James  Conyers.  Tin; 
paragraph  was  not  correct,  for  the  man  had 
e,scaped  with  liis  life:  and  when  I  mamed 
John  Mellish,  my  first  husband  was  alive." 

Aichibald  Floyd  uttered  a  ciy  of  despair, 
and  half  rose  from  his  ea.sy -chair;  but  Aurora 
knelt  upon  the  ground  by  his  side,  with  her 
arms  about  him,  soothing  aiul  conitorting  him. 

"It  is  all  over  now,  dear  father,"  she  said; 


"  it  is  all  over.  The  man  is  dead.  I  will  tell 
you  how  he  died  by  and  by.  It  is  all  over. 
John  knows  all ;  and  I  am  to  marry  him  again. 
Talbot  Bulstrode  says  that  it  is  necessary,  as 
our  marriage  was  not  legal.  My  own  dear 
father,  there  is  to  be  no  more  secrecy,  no  more 
unhappiness — only  love,  and  peace,  and  union 
for  all  of  us." 

She  told  the  old  man  the  story  of  the  train- 
er's death,  dwtdiing  very  little  upon  tlie  ^)ar- 
ticulars.  ami  telling  notiiing  of  her  own  iloings 
that  night,  except  that  she  had  been  in  the 
wood  at  the  time  of  the  murder,  and  that  she 
had  heard  the  pistol  fired. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  story,  this  story  of 
murder,  and  violence,  and  treachery  within 
the  boundary  of  his  daughter's  home.  Even 
amid  Aurora's  assurances  that  all  .soriow  was 
jiast,  that  doubt  and  unceitainty  were  to  van- 
ish away  before  security  and  peace,  Archibald 
Floyd  could  not  control  this  feeling.  He  was 
restless  and  uneasy  in  spite  of  himself.  He 
took  John  Mellish  out  uj)on  the  terrace  in  the 
afternoon  sunshine,  while  Aurora  lay  asleep 
upon  one  of  the  .sofas  in  the  long  drawing- 
room,  and  tuiked  to  him  of  the  trainer".i  di;ath 
as  they  walked  uj)  and  down.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  elicited  from  the  young  .s<iuire 
that  tlirew  any  light  upon  the  catastrophe, 
and  Archibald  Floyd  tried  in  vain  lo  find  any 
issue  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  mystery. 

"Can  you  imagine  any  one  having  any  mo- 
tive for  getting  rid  of  this  man  ?"  the  banker 
asked. 

John  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  had  been 
asked  this  question  so  often  before,  and  liad 
been  always  obliged  to  give  the  same  reply. 

No;  he  knew  of"  no  motive  which  any  one 
about  Mellish  could  be  likely  to  have. 

"Had  the  man  any  money  about  him?" 
asked  Mr.  Floyd. 

"  Goodness  knows  whether  he  had  or  not," 
John  answered,  carelessly;  "but  I  should 
think  it  wa.s  n't  likely  he  had  much.  He  had 
been  out  of  a  situation,  I  believe,  for  some 
time  befoie  he  came  to  nie,  and  he  had  spent 
a  good  many  months  in  a  Prussian  lio.si)ital. 
I  don't  suppose  he  was  worth  robbing." 

The  banker  remembered  the  two  thousand 
pounds  which  he  Iiad  given  to  his  d.uigiiter. 
What  had  Aurora  done  with  that  money  I 
Had  she  known  of  the  trainer's  ixistenee 
when  she  asked  tor  it?  and  had  she  wanted  it 
for  him?  Siie  had  not  explained  this  in  her 
hurried  story  of  the  nmrder,  and  how  could 
he  press  her  upon  so  painful  a  subject?  Wliy 
should  he  not  accept  her  own  assurance  that 
all  was  over,  and  that  nothing  remained  but 
peace. 

Archibald  Floyd  and  his  children  spent  a 
tranr]uil  day  together;  not  talking  much,  for 
Aurora  was  completely  worn  out  by  the  fa- 
tigue and  excitement  she  had  umh  rgone. 
What  had  her  life  been  but  agitation  and 
terror   since   the   day  upon   which   ^Mr.  John 


158 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Pastern's  letter  had  come  to  Mellish  to  tell  her 
of  the  existence  of  her  first  husband?  She 
slept  through  the  best  part  of  the  day,  lying 
upon  a  sofa,  and  with  John  Mellish  sitting  by 
her  side  keeping  watitli  over  her.  She  slept 
while  the  bells  of  Beckenham  ehurch  sum- 
moned the  pai'isliioners  to  afternoon  service, 
and  while  her  father  went  to  assist  in  those 
quiet  devotions,  and  to  kneel  on  his  hassoek 
in  the  old  square  pew,  and  pray  for  the  peace 
of  his  beloved  child.  Heaven  knows  how 
earnestly  the  old  man  prayed  for  his  daughter's 
happiness,  and  how  she  filled  his  thoughts; 
not  distracting  him  from  more  sacred  tlioughts, 
but  blending  her  image  with  his  worship  in 
alternate  prayer  an.d  thanksgiving.  Those 
who  watched  him  as  he  sat,  with  the  sunshinek 
on  his  graj'  head,  listening  reverentially  to 
the  sermon,  little  knew  how  much  trouble  had 
been  mingled  with  the  great  prosperity  of  his 
life.  They  pointed  him  out  respectfully  to 
strangers  as  a  man  whose  signature  across  a 
slip  of  paper  could  make  that  oblong  morsel 
of  beaten  rag  into  an  incalculable  sum  of 
money;  a  man  who  stood  upon  a  golden  pin- 
nacle with  the  Rothschilds,  and  Montefiores, 
and  Couttges;  who  could  afford  to  pay  the  na- 
tional debt  any  morning  that  the  wtiim  seized 
him ;  and  who  was  yet  a  plain  man,  and  sim- 
ple as  a  child,  as  anybody  might  see,  the  ad- 
miring parishioners  would  add,  as  the  banker 
came  out  of  church  shaking  hands  right  and 
left,  and  nodding  to  the  charity  children. 

I  'm  afraid  the  children  dropped  lower 
courtesies  in  the  pathway  of  Mr.  Floyd  thau 
even  before  the  Vicar  of  Beckenham;  for 
they  had  learned  to  associate  the  image  of  the 
banker  with  bunns  and  tea,  with  sixpences  and 
oranges,  gambols  on  the  smooth  lawn  at  Fel- 
den,  and  jovial  feasts  in  monster  tents  to  the 
music  of  clashing  brass  bands,  and  with  even 
greater  treats  in  the  way  of  excursions  to  a 
Crystal  Palace  on  a  hill,  an  enchanted  lairy- 
land  of  wonders,  from  which  it  was  delicious 
to  return  in  the  dewy  evening,  singing-  hymns 
of  rejoicing  that  shook  the  vans  in  which  they 
travelled. 

The  banker  had  distributed  happiness  right 
and  left;  but  the  money  which  might  have 
paid  the  national  debt  had  been  impotent  to 
save  the  life  of  the  dark-eyed  woman  he  had 
loved  so  tenderly,  or  to  spare  him  one  pang  of 
uneasiness  about  his  idolized  child.  Had  not 
that  all-powerful  wealth  been  rather  the  pri- 
mary cause  of  his  daughter's  trouble,  since  it 
had  cast  her,  young,  inexperienced,  and  trust- 
ing, a  prey  into  the  mercenary  hands  of  a  bad 
man,  who  would  not  have  eared  to  persecute 
her  but  for  the  money  that  had  made  her  such 
a  golden  prize  for  any  adventurer  who  might 
please  to  essay  the  hazard  of  winning  her  V 

With  the  memory  of  these  things  always  in 
his  mind,  it  was  scarcely  strange  that  Archi- 
bald Floyd  should  bear  the  burden  of  his 
riches  meeklv   and   fearfully,  knowing   that, 


whatever  he  might  be  in  the  Stock  Exchange, 
he  was  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  only  a  feeble 
old  man,  very  assailable  by  suffering,  very 
liable  to  sorrow,  and  humbly  dependent  on 
the  mercy  of  the  Hand  that  is  alone  powerful 
to  spare  or  to  afflict,  as  seemeth  good  to  Him 
who  guides  it. 

Aurora  awoke  out  of  her  long  sleeji  while 
her  father  was  at  church.  She  awoke  to  find 
her  husband  watching  her ;  the  Sunda}' papers 
lying  forgotten  on  his  knee,  and  his  honest 
eyes  fixed  on  the  face  he  loved. 

"  My  own  dear  John,^  she  said,  as  she  lifted 
her  head  from  the  pillows,  sui)porting  herself 
upon  her  elbow,  and  stretching  out  one  hand 
to  Mr.  Mellish,  "my  own  dear  boy,  how  happy 
we  are  together  now  !  Will  anything  ever 
come  to  break  our  happiness  again,  my  dear  V 
Can  Heaven  be  so  cruel  as  to  afflict  us  any 
more  ?" 

The  banker's  daughter,  in  the  sovereign 
vitality  of  her  nature,  had  rebelled  against 
sorrow  as  a  strange  and  unnatural  part  of  her 
life.  She  had  demanded  happiness  almost  as 
a  right ;  she  had  wondered  at  her  afflictions, 
and  been  unable  to  understand  why  she  should 
be  thus  afflicted.  There  are  natures  which 
accept  suffering  with  patient  meekness,  and 
acknowledge  the  justice  by  which  they  suffer; 
but  Aurora  had  never  done  this.  Her  joyous 
soul  had  revolted  against  sorrow,  and  she 
arose  now  in  the  intenso  relief  which  she  felt 
in  her  release  from  the  bonds  that  had  been 
so  hateful  to  her,  and  challenged  Pi-ovidenco 
with  her  claim  to  be  happy  for  evermore. 

John  Mellish  thought  very  seriously  upon 
this  matter.  He  could  not  forget  the  night  of 
the  murder — the  night  upon  which  he  had  sat 
alone  in  his  wife's  chamb'-r  pondering  upon 
his  unworthiness. 

"  Do  you  think  we  deservt;  to  be  happy, 
Lolly  ?"  he  said,  presently.  '■  Don't  mistake 
me,  my  darling.  I  know  that  you  're  the  best 
and  brightest  of  living  creatures  —  tender- 
hearted, loving,  generous,  and  true.  But  do 
j'ou  think  we  take  life  quite  seriously  enough, 
I  Lolly,  dear?  I  'm  sometimes  afraid  that  we 
're  too  much  like  the  careless  children  in  the 
pretty  childish  allegory,  who  played  about 
among  the  flowers  on  the  smooth  grass  in  the 
beautiful  garden  until  it  was  too  late  to  set 
out  upon  the  long  journey  on  the  dark  road 
which  would  have  led  them  to  Paradise. 
What  shall  we  do,  my  darling,  to  deserve  the 
blessings  God  has  given  us  so  freely  —  the 
blessings  of  youth  and  strength,  and  lovt  and 
wealth  ?  What  shall  we  do,  dear?  I  don't 
want  to  turn  Mellish  into  a  Philanstery  ex- 
actly, nor  to  give  up  my  racing-stud  if  1  can 
help  it,"  John  said,  reflectively ;  "  but  I  want 
to  do  something,  Lolly,  to  prove  that  I  am 
grateful  to  Providence.  Shall  we  build  a  lot 
of  schools,  or  a  church,  or  almshouses,  or 
something  of  that  sort  ?  Lofthouse  would  like 
me  to  put  up  a  painted  window  in  Mellish 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


159 


oliurch,  and  a  new  pulpit  with  a  patent  sound-  j  "  You  will  come  up  to  town,  and  bo  present 
in^-board  ;  but  I  cant  see  that  painted  win-  I  at  the  marriage,  sir,  I  know,"  John  whispered, 
dows  and  sounding-boards  do  much  good  in  {  as  he  took  his  father-in-law's  han<l.  "  Talbot 
a  general  way.  I  want  to  do  something,  I  Bulstrode  will  arrange  all  about  it.  It  is  to 
Aurora,  to  pi-ove  my  gratitude  to  the  Provi-  take  place  at  some  out-of-the  way  little  chundi 
dence  that  has  given  me  the  loveliest  and  best  in  the  city.  Nobody  will  be  any  the  wiser, 
of  women  for  my  true-hearted  wife."  and  Aurora  and  1  will  go  back  to  INlellish  as 

The  banker's  daughter  smiled  almost  mourn-    quietly  as  possible.     There  's  only  Lofthousc 


fully  upon  her  devoted  husband. 

"  Have  I  been  such  a  blessing  to  you,  .lohn," 
she  said,  "  that  you  should  be  grateful  for  me  ? 
Have  I  not  brought  you  far  more  son-ow  than 
hapi)iness,  my  poor  clear?" 

"  No,"  shouted  Mr.  Meliish,  emphatically. 
"  The  sorrow  you  have  brought  me  has  been 
nothing  to  the  joy  I  have  felt  in  your  love. 
My  own  dearest  girl,  to  be  sitting  here  by  \n\n' 
side  to-day.  and  to  hear  you  tell  me  that  you 
love  me,  is  enough  happiness  to  set  against  all 
the  trouble  of  mind  that  I  have  endured  since 
the  man  that  is  dead  came  to  Meliisli." 

I  hope  my  poor  John  Meliish  will  be  for- 
given if  he  talked  a  great  deal  of  nonsense  to 
the  wife  he  loved.  He  had  been  her  lover 
ii'om  tlie  first  moment  in  which  he  had  seen 
her,  darkly  beautiful,  upon  the  gusty  Brighton 
Parade,  and  he  was  her  lover  still.  No  shadow 
of  contempt  had  ever  grown  out  of  his  famil- 
iarity with  her.  And,  indeed,  I  am  <lisposed 
to  take  objection  to  that  old  proverb,  or  at  least 
to  believe  that  contempt  is  only  engendered 
of  familiaritv  with  things  which  are  in  them- 


and  Hay  ward  know  the  secret  of  the  certifi- 
cate, and  they — " 

John  Meliish  stopped  suddenly.  He  re- 
membered Mrs.  Powell's  parting  sting.  She 
knew  the  secret.  But  how  could  she  have 
come  by  that  knowledge  ?  It  was  impossible 
that  cither  Lofthouse  or  Ilayward  could  have 
told  her.  They  w(>re  both  honorable  men, 
and  they  had  jiledgcd  themselves  to  be  silent. 

Archibald  Floyd  did  not  obsei-ve  his  son-in- 
law's  embarrassment;  and  the  phaeton  drove 
away,  leaving  the  old  man  standing  on  the 
terrace-steps  looking  alter  his  daughter. 

"  I  must  sliut  up  this  place,"  he  thought, 
"and  go  to  I\Iellish  to  finish  my  days.  I  <,'ai» 
not  endure  these  separations ;  I  can  not  bear 
this  suspense.  It  is  a  pitiful  sham,  my  keep- 
ing house,  and  living  in  all  this  dreary  gran- 
deur. I  '11  shut  up  the  place,  and  ask  my 
daughter  to  give  me  a  (juict  corner  in  her 
Yorkshire  home,  and  a  grave  in  the  parish 
church-yard." 

The  lodge-keeper  turn(!d  out  of  his  com- 
fortable Gotliic  habitation  to  open  the  clank- 


selves  base  and  spurious.     The  priest  who  is  i  ing    iron   gates   for   the   phaeton  ;   but  John 


familiar  with  the  altar  learns  no  contempt  ibi 
its  sacred  images;  but  it  is  rather  the  ignorant 
neoplnte  who  .sneers  and  sniggers  at  things 
which  he  can  not  understand.  The  artist  be- 
comes only  more  reverent  as  toil  and  study 
make  him  more  familiar  with  his  art  ;  its 
eternal   sublimity  grows   upon    him,  and   he 


drew  up  his  horses  before  they  dashed  into 
the  road,  for  he  saw  that  the  man  wanted  to 
speak  to  him. 

"  What  is  it,  Forbes  V"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  it  's  nothing  partiiular,  sir,"  said  the 
man,  ''  and  perhaps  I  ought  n't  to  trouble 
you   about  it ;    but  did  you   e.xpect  any  one 


worships  the  far-away  Goddess  of  Perfection  j  down  to-day,  sir  ?' 
as  hund^ly  when   he  drops   his  brush  or  his!      "  E^xpect   any   one  here?    no!"   exclaimed 
chisel  after  a  life  of  patient  labor  as  he  did  i  John. 

when  first  he  ground  color  or  pointed  rough  !  "  There  's  been  a  person  inquirin',  sir,  this 
blocks  of  marble  for  his  master.  And  I  can  !  atlernoon— two  persons,  I  may  say,  in  a  shay- 
not  believe  that  a  -rood  man's  respect  for  the  i  eart  —  but  one  of  'em  asked  particular  if  you 
woman  he  love.^  can  be  lessened  by  that  sweet  |  was  here,  sir,  and  if  Mrs.  Meliish  was  here  ; 
and  everyday  familiarity  in  which  a  hundred  |  and  whi-n  I  said  yes,  you  was,  th.;  gent  savs 
hou.«ehold  virtues  and  gentle  beauties— never  '  it  was  n't  worth  troublin'  you  about,  the  busi- 
dreamed  of  in  the  ball-rooms  where  he  first  \  ness  as  he  'd  come  upon,  and  as  he  'd  call 
danced  witli  an  unknown  idol  in  gauzy  robes  i  another  time.  And  he  a.sked  me  what  time 
and  glimmering  jewels— grow  upon  him,  until  I  you  'd  be  likely  to  be  leavin'  the  Woods; 
he  confes.ses  that  the  wife  of  ten  years  stand-  l  "and  I  said  I  made  no  doubt  yon  'd  slay  to 
ing  is  even  ten  times  dearer  than  the  bride  of  dinner  up  at  the  house.  So  he  says  '  .\11 
a  week's  honevmoon.  '  right,'  and  drives  ofi'. ' 

Archibald  Flovd  came  back  from  church,!      "  He  left  no  message,  then  V" 
and  found  his  two  children  sitting  side  by  side  j      "  No.  sir.     He  said  nothin'  more  than  what 
in  one  of  the  broad  windows,  watching  for  his  j  I  've  told  you." 

arrival,  and  whispering  together  like  lovers,  "Then  his  business  could  have  been  of  no 
as  I  have  said  they  were.  I  gn-at  importance,    Forbes,"   answered    John, 

They  "lined  jileanantly  together  later  in  the  i  laiighin;:.     "  So  we  nced^n't  worry  our  hcad-< 
evening,  and  a  little  after  dark  the  phaeton    about  him.     Good-night." 
was  brought  round  to  the  terrace-steps,  and  {      Mr.   Meliish   .Iropped   a   five-shilling  piece 
Aurora  kissed  her  father  as  she  wished  him    into  the   lodge-keeper's  h.and,  gave  Talbot's 
f'ood-night.  horses  their  heads,  and  the  phaeton  rolled  off 


160 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Loiulonward  over  the  crisp  gravel  of  the  well- 
kept  Beckeiiham  roads. 

"  Who  could  the  man  have  been  ?"  Aurora 
asked,  as  they  left  the  gates. 

"  Goodness  knows,  my  dear,"  John  answer- 
ed, carelessly.  "  Somebody  on  racing  busi- 
ness, perhaps." 

Racing  business  seems  to  be  in  itself  such  a 
mysterious  business  that  it  is  no  strange  thing 
for  mysterious  people  to  be  always  turning  up 
in  relation  to  it.  Aurora,  therefore,  was  con- 
tent to  accept  this  explanation,  but  not  with- 
out some  degree  of  wonderment. 

"  I  can't  understand  the  man  coming  to 
Felden  after  you,  John,"  she  said.  "  How 
could  he  know  that  you  were  to  be  there 
to-day  V" 

"  Ah !  how  indeed,  Lolly  ?"  returned  Mr. 
Mellish.  "He  chanced  it,  I  suppose.  A  sharp 
customer,  no  doubt ;  wants  to  sell  a  horse,  I 
dare  say,  and  heard  I  did  n't  mind  giving  a 
good  price  for  a  good  thing." 

Mr.  Mellish  might  have  gone  even  farther 
than  this,  lor  there  were  many  horsey  gentle- 
men in  his  neighborhood,  past  masters  in  the 
art  they  practised,  who  were  wont  to  say  that 
the  young  squire,  judiciously  manipulated, 
might  be  induced  to  give  a  remarkably  good 
price  for  a  very  bad  thing,  and  there  were 
many  broken-down,  slim-legged  horses  in  the 
Mellish  stables  that  bore  witness  to  the  same 
fact.  Those  needy  chevaliers  iVeaprity  who 
think  that  Burke's  landed  gentry  were  cre- 
ated by  Providence  and  endowed  with  the 
goods  of  this  world  for  their  especial  benefit, 
just  as  pigeons  are  made  plump  and  nice  eat- 
ing for  the  delectation  of  hawks,  drove  a 
wholesale  trade  upon  the  young  man's  frank 
simplicity  and  hearty  belief  in  his  fellow- 
creatures.  I  think  it  is  Eliza  Cook  who  says, 
"  It  is  better  to  trust  and  be  deceived,  than 
own  the  mean,  poor  spirit  that  betrays;"  and 
if  there  is  any  happiness  in  being  "  done," 
poor  John  enjoyed  that  fleeting  delight  pretty 
frequently. 

There  was  a  turn  in  the  road  between 
Beckeiiham  and  Norwood ;  and  as  the  phae- 
ton swept  round,  a  chaise  or  dog -cart,  a 
shabby  vehicle  enough,  with  a  rakish-looking 
horse,  drove  close  up,  and  the  man  who  was 
driving  asked  the  scjuire  to  put  him  in  the 
nearest  way  to  Loudon.  The  vehicle  had 
been  behind  them  all  the  way  from  Felden, 
but  had  kept  at  a  very  respectful  distance 
until  now. 

"Do  you  want  to  get  to  the  city  or  tiie 
West  End  ?"  John  a.sked. 

"  The  West  End." 

"  Then  you  can't  do  better  than  follow  us," 
answered  Mr.  Mellish ;  "  the  road  's  clean 
enough,  and  your  iiorse  seems  a  good  one  to 
go.     You  can  keep  us  In  sight,  I  suppose  ? 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  thank  ye." 

"  All  right,  then." 

Talbot  Bulstrode's  thorough-breds  dashed 


olT,  but  the  rakish -looking  horse  kept  his 
ground  behind  tliem.  He  had  something  of 
the  insolent,  off-hand  assurance  of  a  butch- 
er's horse,  accustomed  to  whirl  a  bare-headed, 
blue-coated  master  through  the  sharp  morn- 
ing air. 

"  I  was  right,  Lolly,'  Mr.  Mellish  said,  as 
he  left  the  dog-cart  behind. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  dear  ?"  asked  Aurora. 

"  The  man  who  spoke  to  us  just  now  is  the 
man  who  has  been  inquiring  for  me  at  Felden. 
He  's  a  Yorkshireman." 

"  A  Yorkshireman !" 

"  Yes ;  did  n't  you  hear  the  North-country 
twang?  ' 

No;  she  had  not  listened  to  the  man,  nor 
heeded  him.  How  should  she  think  of  any- 
thing but  her  newborn  happiness  —  the  new- 
born confidence  between  herself  and  the  hus- 
band she  loved  ? 

Do  not  think  her  hard-hearted  or  cruel  if 
she  forgot  that  it  was  the  death  of  a  fellow- 
creature,  a  sinful  man  stri<;ken   down  in  the 
prime,  of  youth   and   health,  that  had  given 
her  this  welcome  release.     She   had  suffered 
so  much  that  the  release  could  not  be  other- 
wise than  welcome,  let  it  come  how  it  might. 
j       Her   nature,  I'rank  and   open   as  the  day, 
I  had  been  dwarfed  and  crippled  by  the  secret 
I  that  had  blighted  her  life.     Can  it  be  won- 
dered, then,  that  she  rejoiced   now   that   all 
need  of  secrecy  was  over,  and  this  generous 
spirit  might  expand  as  It  pleased  V 

It  was  past  ten  when  the  phaeton  turned 
into  Half-Moon  street.  The  men  In  the  dog- 
cart had  followed  Johns  directions  to  the 
letter,  for  it  was  only  in  Piccadilly  that  Mr. 
Mellish  had  lost  sight  of  them  among  other 
vehicles  travelling  backward  and  forward  on 
the  lamplit  thoroughfare. 

Talbot  and  Lucy  received  their  visitors 
in  one  of  the  pretty  little  drawing-rooms. 
The  young  husband  and  wife  had  spent  a 
quiet  day  together  ;  going  to  church  in  the 
morning  and  afternoon,  dining  alone,  and 
sitting  in  the  twilight,  talking  happily  and 
confidentially.  Mr.  Bulstrode  was  no  Sab- 
bath-breaker; and  John  Mellish  had  reason 
to  consider  himself  a  peculiarly  privileged 
person,  inasmuch  as  the  thorough-breds  had 
been  permitted  to  leave  their  stables  for  his 
service,  to  say  nothing  of  the  groom,  who  had 
been  absent  from  his  hard  seat  in  the  ser- 
vants' pew  at  a  fashionable  chapel  in  order 
that  he  might  accompany  John  and  Aurora  to 
Felden. 

The  little  party  sat  up  rather  late,  Aurora 
and  Lucy  talking  affectionately  together,  side 
by  side,  upon  a  sofa  in  the  shadow  of  the 
room,  while  the  two  men  lounged  in  the  open 
window.  John  told  his  host  the  history  of 
the  day,  and  In  doing  so  casually  mentioned 
the  man  who  had  asked  him  the  way  to 
London. 

Strange  to  say,  Talbot    Bulstrode  seemed 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


161 


especially  interested  in  this  part  of  the  story. 
He  asked  several  questions  about  the  men. 
He  asked  what  they  were  like ;  what  was 
said  by  eitlier  of  tliein ;  and  made  many  other 
inquiries,  wliioh  seemed  equally  trivial. 

"  Then  they  followed  you  into  town,  John  ?" 
he  said,  finally. 

''  Yes  ;  I  only  lost  sight  of  them  in  Picca- 
dilly, five  minutes  before  I  turned  the  corner 
of  the  street." 

"  Do  you  think  they  had  any  motive  in 
following  you  ?"  asked  Talbot. 

"  Well,  I  fancy  so ;  they  're  on  the  look-out 
for  information,  I  expect.  The  man  who 
spoke  to  me  looked  something  like  a  tout. 
I  've  heard  that  Lord  Stamford  's  rather  anx- 
ious .about  my  West-Australian  colt,  the  Pork 
Butcher.  Perhaps  his  people  have  set  these 
men  to  work  to  find  out  if  I  'm  going  to  run 
him  ill  the  Leger." 

Talbot  Bulstrode  smiled  bitterly,  almost 
mournfully,  at  the  vanity  of  horseflesh.  It 
was  painful  to  see  this  light-hearted  young 
squire  looking  in  such  ignorant  hopefulness 
toward  a  horizon  upon  which  graver  and 
moie  thoughtful  men  could  see  a  dreadful 
shadow  lowering.  Mr.  Bulstrode  was  stand- 
ing close  to  the  balcony ;  he  stepped  out 
among  the  china  boxes  of  mignonette,  and 
looked  down  into  the  quiet  street.  A  man 
was  leaning  against  a  lamp-post  some  few 
paces  from  Talbot's  house,  smoking  a  cigar, 
and  with  his  i'ace  turned  toward  the  balcony. 
He  finished  his  cigar  deliberately,  threw  the 
end  into  the  road,  and  walked  away  while 
Talbot  kept  watch ;  but  Mr.  Bulstrode  did 
not  leave  his  post  of  observation,  and  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  he  saw  the  same 
man  lounging  slowly  along  the  pavement 
upon  the  other  side  of  the  street.  John,  who 
.sat  within  the  shadow  of  the  window-cur- 
tains, lolling  against  them,  and  creasing  their 
delicate  folds  with  the  heavy  pressure  of  his 
broad  back,  was  utterly  unconscious  of  all  this. 

Early  the  next  morning  Mr.  Bulstrode  and 
Mr.  Mellish  took  a  Hansom  cab,  and  rattled 
down  to  Doctor's  Commons,  where,  for  the 
second  time  in  his  life,  John  gave  himself  up 
to  be  fought  for  by  Avhite  -  aproned  eccle- 
siastical touts,  and  eventually  obtained  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury's  gracious  sanction 
of  his  marriage  with  Aurora,  widow  of  James 
Conyers,  only  daughter  of  Archibald  Floyd, 
banker.  From  Doctor's  Commons  the  two 
gentlemen  drove  to  a  certain  quiet,  out-of-the- 
vay  church,  within  the  sound  of  Bow  bells, 
but  so  completely  hidden  among  piles  of 
warehouxs,  top  -  heavy  chimneys,  sloping 
roofs,  and  other  eccentricities  of  masonry, 
that  any  unhappy  bridegroom  who  had  ap- 
pointed to  be  .married  there  was  likely 
enough  to  spend  the  whole  of  the  wedding- 
day  in  futile  endeavors  to  find  the  church- 
door.  Here  John  discovered  a  mouldy  clerk, 
who  was  fetched  from  some  habitation  in  the 
11 


neighborhood  with  considerable  difficulty  l>j 
a  boy,  who  Tolunteered  to  accomplish  any- 
thing under  heaven  for  a  certain  copper  con- 
sideration; and  to  this  clerk  Mr.  Mellish  gave 
notice  of  a  marriage  which  was  to  take  place 
upon  the  following  day,  by  special  license. 

"  I  '11  take  my  second  marriage  certificate 
back  with  me,"  John  said,  as  he  lefl  the 
church,  "  and  then  I  should  like  to  see  who  'II 
dare  to  look  me  in  the  face,  and  tell  me  that  my 
darling  is  not  my  own  lawfully-wedded  wife." 

He  was  thinking  of  Mrs.  Powell  as  he  said 
this.  He  was  thinking  of  the  pale,  spiteful 
eyes  tliat  had  looked  at  him,  and  of  the 
woman's  tongue  that  had  stabbed  him  with 
all  a  little  nature's  great  capacity  for  hate. 
He  would  be  able  to  defy  her  now;  he  would 
be  able  to  defy  every  creature  in  the  world 
who  dared  to  breathe  a  syllable  against  his 
beloved  wife. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  marriage  took 
place.  Archibald  Floyd,  Talbot  Bulstrode, 
and  Lucy  were  the  only  witnesses — that  is  to 
say,  the  only  witnesses  with  the  exception  of 
the  clerk  and  the  pew-opener,  and  a  couple  of 
men  who  lounged  into  the  church  when  the 
ceremony  was  half  over,  and  slouched  about 
one  of  the  side  aisles,  looking  at  tiie  monu- 
ments, and  talking  to  each  other  in  whispers, 
until  the  parson  took  off  his  surplice,  and 
John  came  out  of  the  vestry  with  his  wife 
upon  his  arm. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish  did  not  return  to 
Half-Moou  street ;  they  drove  straight  to  the 
(ireat  Northern  Station,  whence  they  started 
by  the  afternoon  express  for  Doncaster.  John 
was  anxious  to  return:  for  remember  that  he 
had  left  his  household  under  very  peculiikr 
circumstances,  and  strange  reports  might 
have  arisen  in  his  absence. 

The  )Oung  squire  would  perhaps  scarcely 
have  thought  of  this  had  not  the  idea  been 
suggested  to  him  by  Talbot  Bulstrode,  who 
particularly  urged  upon  him  the  expediency 
of  returning  immediately. 

"  Go  back,  John,"  said  Mr.  Bulstrode, 
"  without  an  hour's  unnecessary  delay.  If 
by  any  chance  there  should  be  some  farther 
disturbance  »bout  this  murder,  it  will  be 
much  better  for  you,  and  Aurora  too,  to  be 
on  the  spot.  I  will  come  down  to  Melliuh 
myself  in  a  day  or  two,  and  will  bring  Lucy 
with  me,  if  you  will  allow  me." 

"Allow  yuu,  my  dear  Talbot  1" 

"1  iciU  coine,  then.  Good -by,  and  God 
bless  you!     Take  care  of  your  wife." 


CHAPTER  XXXIH. 

s 
CAPTAIN     PKOPDKU     OOKS     BACK     TO     DOW- 
PASTKR. 

Mr.  Samuel  Prodder,  returning  to  London, 
after  having  played  his  insignificant  part  ia 


1(2 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


the  tragedy  at  Feldeu  Woods,  found  that  eity 
singularly  dull  and  gloomy.  He  put  up  at 
some  dismal  Hjoarding-house,  situated  amid  a 
mazy  labyrinth  of  brick  and  mortar  between 
the  Tower  and  Wapping,  and  having  relations 
with  another  boarding-house  in  Liverpool. 
He  took  up  his  abode  at  this  place,  in  which 
he  wa,s  known  and  respected.  He  drank  rum 
and  water,  and  played  cribbage  with  other 
seamen,  made  after  the  same  pattern  as  him- 
self. He  even  went  to  an  East-End  theatre 
upon  the  Saturday  night  after  the  murder, 
and  sat  out  the  representation  of  a  nautical 
drama,  which  he  would  have  been  glad  to 
have  believed  in,  had  it  not  promulgated  such 
wild  theories  in  the  science  of  navigation,  and 
exhibited  such  extraordinary  experiments  in 
the  manoeuvring  of  the  man  -  of-  war  upon 
which  the  action  of  the  play  took  place  as  to 
cause  the  captain's  hair  to  stand  on  end  in  the 
intensity  of  his  wonder.  The  things  people 
did  upon  that  ship  curdled  Samuel  Prodder's 
blood,  as  he  sat  In  the  lonely  grandeur  of  the 
eighteen-penny  boxes.  It  was  quite  a  common 
thing  for  them  to  walk  unhesHtatingly  through 
the  bulwarks,  and  disappear  in  what  ought  to 
have  been  the  sea.  The  extent  of  browbeat- 
ing and  humiliation  borne  by  the  captain  of 
that  noble  vessel;  the  amount  of  authority 
exercised  by  a  sailor  with  loose  legs;  the  ago- 
nies of  sea-sjckness,  represented  by  a  comic 
countryman,  who  had  no  particular  business 
on  board  tlie  gallant  bark;  the  proportion  of 
hornpipe-dancing  and  nautical  ballad-singing 
pone  tlu'ough  as  compared  to  the  work  that 
was  done,  all  combined  to  impress  poor  Sam- 
uel with  such  a  novel  view  of  her  majesty's 
naval  service  that  he  was  very  glad  when  the 
captain  who  had  been  browbeaten  suddenly 
repented  of  all  his  sins  —  not  without  a  sharp 
reminder  from  the  prompter,  who  informed 
the  dramatis  persona;  tliat  it  was  parst  twelve, 
and  they  'd  better  cut  it  short  —  joined  the 
hands  of  the  contumacious  sailor  and  a  young 
lady  in  white  muslin,  and  begged  them  to  be 
happy. 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  captain  sought  dis- 
traction from  the  one  idea  upon  which  he  had 
perpetually  brooded  since  the  night  of  his  visit 
to  MeUish  Park.  He  would  be  wanted  in 
Yorkshire  to  tell  what  he  knew  of  the  dark 
history  of  that  fatal  night.  He  would  be 
called  upon  to  declare  at  what  hour  he  had 
entered  the  wood,  whom  he  had  met  there, 
what  he  had  seen  and  heard  there.  They 
would  extort  from  him  that  which  he  would 
have  died  rather  than  tell.  They  would  cross- 
examine,  and  bewilder,  and  torment  him,  un- 
til he  told  them  everything  —  until  he  repeat- 
ed, syllable  by  syllable,  the  passionate  words 
that  had  been  said  —  until  he  told  them  how, 
within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  the  firing  of 
the  pistol,  he  had  been  the  witness  of  a  des-  I 
perate  scene  between  his  niece  and  the  mur- 
dered man  —  a  scene  in  which  concentrated 


hate,  vengeful  fury,  illimitable  disdain  and 
detestation  had  been  expressed  by  her  —  by 
her  alone:  the  man  had  been  calm  and  mod- 
erate enough.  It  was  she  who  had  been 
angry;  It  was  she  who  had  given  loud  utter- 
ance to  her  hate. 

Now,  by  reason  of  one  of  those  strange  in- 
consistencies common  to  weak  human  nature, 
the  captain,  though  possessed  night  and  day 
by  a  blind  terror  of  being  suddenly  pounced 
upon  by  the  minions  of  the  law,  and  compelled 
to  betray  his  niece's  secret,  could  not  rest  in 
his  safe  retreat  amid  the  labyrinths  of  Wap- 
ping, but  must  needs  pine  to  return  to  the 
scene  of  the  murder.  He  wanted  to  know 
the  result  of  the  inquest.  The  Sunday  papers 
gave  a  very  meagre,  account,  only  hinting 
darkly  at  suspected  parties.  He  wanted  to 
ascertain  for  himself  what  had  happened  at 
the  inquest,  and  whether  his  absence  had 
given  rise  to  suspicion.  He  wanted  to  see  his 
niece  again  —  to  see  her  In  the  daylight,  un- 
disturbed by  passion.  He  wanted  to  see  this 
beautiful  tigress  in  her  calmer  moods,  if  she 
ever  had  any  calmer  moods.  Heaven  knows 
the  simple  merchant-captain  was  wellnigh  dis- 
tracted as  he  thought  of  his  sister  Eliza's  child, 
and  the  awful  circumstances  of  his  first  and 
only  meeting  with  her. 

Was  sh«  —  that  which  he  feared  people 
might  be  led  to  think  her  if  they  heard  the 
story  of  that  scene  in  the  wood?     No,  no,  no! 

She  was  his  sister's  child — the  child  of  that 
merry,  impetuous  little  girl  who  had  worn  a 
pinatbre  and  played  hop-scotcii.  He  remem- 
bered his  sister  flying  into  a  rage  with  one 
Tommy  Barnes  for  unfair  practices  in  that 
very  game,  and  upbraiding  \m\\  almost  as  pas- 
sionately as  Aurora  had  upbraided  the  dead 
man.  But  if  Tommj'  Barnes  had  been  found 
strangled  by  a  skipping-rope,  or  shot  dead 
from  a  pea-shooter  In  the  next  street  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  afterward,  would  Eliza's  broth- 
er have  thouglit  that  she  must  needs  be  guilty 
of  the  boy's  murder?  The  captain  had  gone 
so  far  as  to  reason  thus  in  his  trouble  of  mind. 
His  sister  Eliza's  child  would  be  likely  to  be 
passionate  and  impetuous,  but  his  sister  Eliza's 
child  would  be  a  generous,  warm-hearted 
creature,  incapable  of  any  cruelty  in  either 
thought  or  deed.  He  remembered  his  sister 
Eliza  boxing  his  ears  on  the  occasion  of  his 
gouging  out  the  eyes  of  her  wax  doll,  but  he 
remembered  the  same  dark-eyed  sister  sobbing 
piteously  at  the  spectacle  of  a  lamb  that  a 
heartless  butcher  was  dragging  to  the  slaugh- 
ter-house. 

But  the  more  seriously  Captain  Prodder 
revolved  this  question  in  his  mind,  the  more 
decidedly  his  inclination  pointed  fo  Doncaster; 
and  early  upon  that  very  morning  on  which 
the  quiet  marriage  had  taken  place  in  the 
obscure  city  church  he  repaired  to  a  magnifi- 
cent Israelitish  temple  of  fashion  in  the  Mi- 
nories,  and  there  ordered  a  suit  of  such  clothes 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


16$ 


fes  wevo  most  aflTectetl  by  elegant  landsmen. 
The  Israclitish  salesman  rec-onimcMKk'd  some- 
thinir  liglit  and  lively  in  the  faney-check  lino; 
and  Mr.  Prodder.  submitting  to  that  authority 
as  beyond  all  question,  invested  himself  in  a 
suit  which  he  had  contemplated  solemnly 
athwart  a  vast  expanse  of  piate.-glass  before 
entering  the  temple  of  the  Graces.  It  was 
"our  ai'istocratie  tourist,"  at  seventy -seven 
shillings  and  sixpence,  and  was  made  of  a 
fleecy  and  rather  powdery-looking  cloth,  in 
which  the  hues  of  baked  and  unbaked  bricks 
predominated  over  a  more  deli(%ate  hearth- 
stone tint,  which  latter  the  shopman  had  de- 
clared to  be  a  color  that  West-End  tailors  had 
vainly  striven  to  emulate. 

The  captain,  dressed  in  "our  aristocratic 
tourist,"  Avhich  suit  was  of  the  ultra  cut-away 
and  peg-toppy  order,  and  with  his  sleeves  and 
trowsers  inflated  by  any  chance  summer's 
breeze,  had  perhaps  more  of  the  appearance 
of  a  tombola  than  is  quite  in  accoidance  with 
a  strictly  artistic  view  of  the  human  figure. 
In  his  desire  to  make  himself  utterly  irrecog- 
nizable  as  the  seafaring  man  who  had  carried 
the  tidings  of  the  murder  to  Mellish  Park,  the 
captain  had  tortured  himself  by  substituting 
a  tight  circular  collar  and  a  wisp  of  purjile 
ribbon  for  the  honest  half-yard  of  snowy  linen 
which  it  had  been  his  habit  to  wear  turned 
over  the  loose  collar  of  his  blue  coat.  He 
sufferfid  acute  agonies  from  this  modern  de- 
vice, but  he  bore  them  bravely;  and  he  went 
straight  from  the  tailor's  to  the  Great  North- 
ern Railway  Station,  where  he  took  his  ticket 
for  Doncaster.  He  meant  to  visit  that  town  | 
as  an  aristocratic  tourist;  he  would  keep  him-  \ 
self  aloof  from  the  neighborhood  ot  Mellish  | 
Park,  but  he  would  be  sure  to  hear  the  result 
of  the  in(juest,  and  he  would  be  able  to  ascer- 
tain for  himself  whether  any  trouble  had  come. I 
upon  his  sister's  ciiild.  | 

The  sea-captain  did  not  travel  by  that  ex-  ! 
press  which  carried  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish  to  j 
Doncaster,   but  by  an   uarlier  and   a  slower  j 
train,  which  lumbered  (pnetly  along  the  road,  1 
conveying  inferior  j)ersons,  to  whom  time  was 
not  measured  by  a  golden  standard,  and 'who 
smoked,  and  slept,  and  ate,  and  drank  resign-  | 
edly  enough  througli  the  eight  or  nine  hours 
journey. 

It  was  dusk  when  Samuel  Prodder  reached 
the  quiet  racing-town  from  which  he  had  tied 
away  in  the  dead  of  the  night  so  short  a  time 
before.     He   left  the   station,  and   made   his  i 
way  to  the  market-phace,  and  from  the,  mar-  j 
ket-plaee  he  struck  into  a  narrow  lane  that  ! 
led   him  to  an  obscure  street  upon  the  out-  : 
skirts  of  the  town.     He  had  a  great  terror  of  1 
being    led    by   some    unha})py   accident   into 
the  neighborhood  of  the  "  Reindeer,"  lest  he 
should  be    recognized  by  some  hanger-on  of 
that  hotel. 

Half-way   between    the  beginning  of  the 
straggling  street  and  the   point  at  which  it 


dwindled  and  shrank  away  into  a  country 
lane,  the  captain  found  a  little  public -house 
called  the  "Crooked  Rabbit"  —  such  an  ob- 
scure and  out-of-the-way  place  of  entertain- 
ment that  poor  Samuel  thought  him.self  safe 
in  seeking  for  rest  and  refreshment  within  its 
dingy  walls.  There  was  a  framed  and  glazed 
legend  of  "good  beds"  hanging  behind -an 
opaque  window-pane  —  beds  for  which  the 
landlord  of  the  "  Crooked  Rabbit"  was  in  the 
habit  of  asking  and  receiving  almost  fabulous 
prices  during  the  great  Leger  week.  But 
them  seemed  little  enough  doing  at  the  hum- 
ble tavern  just  now,  and  Captain  Prodder 
walked  boldly  in,  ordered  a  steak  and  a  pint 
of  ale,  with  a  glass  of  rum  and  water,  hot,  to 
follow,  at  the  bar,  and  engaged  one  of  the 
good  beds  for  his  accommodation.  The  land- 
lord, Avho  was  a  fat  man,  lounged  with  his 
back  against  the  bar,  reading  the  sporting 
news  in  the  Manchester  Guardinn  ;  and  it  was 
the  landlady  who  took  Mr.  Proddei-'s  orders, 
and  showed  him  the  way  into  an  awkwardlv- 
shaped  parlor,  which  wa^  nuich  below  the  rest 
of  the  house,  and  into  which  the  uninitiated 
visitor  was  apt  to  precipitate  himsidf  head 
foremost,  as  into  a  well  or  jiit.  There  were 
several  small  mahogany  tables  in  this  room,  all 
adorned  with  sticky  arabesques  formed  by  the 
wet  impressions  of  the  bottom  rims  of  pewter 
pots;  there  were  so  many  spittoons  that  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  walk  fii-om  one  end  of 
the  room  to  the  other  without  taking  uninten- 
tional foot-baths  of  sawdust;  there  was  an 
old  bagatelle  -  table,  the  cloth  of  which  had 
changed  from  green  to  dingy  yellow,  and  was 
frayed  and  tattered  like  a  poor  man's  coat; 
and  there  was  a  low  window,  the  sill  of  which 
was  almost  on  a  level  with  the  pavement  of 
the  street. 

The  merchant-captain  threw  off  his  hat, 
loosened  the  slip  of  ribbon  and  the  torturing 
circular  collar  supplied  him  by  the  Israelitish 
outfitter,  and  east  himself  into  a  shining  ma- 
hogany arm-chair  close  to  this  window.  Tlie 
lower  {)anes  wen;  shroude<l  l)y  a  crimson  cur- 
tain, and  he  lifted  this  very  cautiously,  and 
peered  for  a  few  moments  into  the  street.  It 
was  lonely  enough  and  quiet  enough  in  the 
dusky  summer's  evening.  Here  and  there 
lights  twinkled  in  a  shop-window,  and  upon 
one  threshold  a  man  stood  talking  to  his 
neighbor.  With  one  thought  always  par.v 
mount  in  his  mind,  it  is  scrarcely  .strange  that 
Samuel  Prodder  should  fancy  these  people 
must  necessarily  be  talking  of  the  murder. 

The  landlady  brought  the  captain  the  steak 
he  had  ordered,  and  the  tired  traveller  seated 
hinnelf  at  one  of  the  tables,  ami  discussed  his 
simple  meal.  He  had  eaten  nothing  since 
seven  o'clo<  k  that  morning,  and  he  made  very 
short  work  of  the  three-quarters  of  a  pound 
of  meat  that  had  been  cooked  for  him.  He 
(inished  his  beer,  drank  his  rum  and  wat-er, 
smoked  a  pipe,  and  then,  as  he  had  the  room 


164 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


htill  to  himself,  he  made  an  impromptu  couch 
of  Windsor  chairs  arranged  in  a  row,  and,  in 
his  own  parlance,  turned-in  upon  this  roi;gh 
hammock  to  take  a  brief  stretch. 

He  might  have  set  his  mind  at  rest,  per- 
haps, before  this,  had  he  chosen.  He  could 
have  questioned  the  landlady  about  the  mur- 
der at  Mellish  Park  ;  she  was  likely  to  know 
as  much  as  any  one  else  he  might  meet  at  the 
"  Crooked  Rabbit."  But  he  had  refrained 
froin  doing  this  because  he  did  not  wish  to 
draw  attention  to  himself  in  any  way  as  a  per- 
son in  the  smallest  degree  interested  in  the 
murder.  How  did  he  know  what  inquiries 
had  possibly  been  made  for  the  missing  wit- 
ness V  There  was  perhaps  some  enormous 
reward  offered  for  his  apprehension,  and  a 
word  or  a  look  might  betray  him  to  the 
greedy  eyes  of  those  upon  the  watch  to  ob- 
tain it. 

Remember  that  this  broad-shouldered  sea- 
faring man  was  as  ignorant  as  a  child  of  all 
things  beyond  the  deck  of  his  own  vessel,  and 
the  watery  high-roads  he  had  been  wont  to 
navigate.  Life  along-shore  was  a  solemn 
mystery  to  him  —  the  law  of  the  British  do- 
minions a  compl'cation  of  inscrutable  enigmas, 
only  to  be  spoken  of  and  thought  of  in  a 
spirit  of  reverence  and  wonder.  If  anybody 
Lad  told  him  that  he  was  likely  to  be  seized 
upon  as  an  accessory  before  the  fact,  and  hung 
out  of  hand  for  his  passive  part  in  the  Mellish 
catastrophe,  he  would  have  believed  them  im- 
plicitly. How  did  he  know  how  many  Acts 
of  Parliament  his  conduct  in  leaving  Doncas- 
tcr  without  giving  his  evidence  might  come 
under  '?  It  might  be  high  treason,  leze-majes- 
ty  —  anything  in  the  world  that  is  unpro- 
nounceable and  awfui  —  for  aught  this  simple 
sailor  knew  to  the  contrary.  But  in  all  this 
it  was  not  his  own  safety  that  Captain 
Prodder  thought  of.  That  was  of  very  little 
moment  to  this  light-hearted,  easy-going  sail- 
or, lie  had  perilled  his  life  too  often  on  the 
high-seas  to  set  any  exaggerated  value  upon 
it  ashore.  If  they  chose  to  hang  an  innocent 
man,  they  must  do  their  worst ;  it  would  be 
their  mistake,  not  his ;  and  he  had  a  simple, 
seaman-like  faith,  rather  vague,  perhaps,  and 
not  very  reducible  to  anything  like  Thirty-nine 
Articles,  that  told  him  that  there  were  sweet 
little  cherubs  sitting  up  aloft  who  would  take 
good  care  that  any  such  sublunary  mistake 
should  be  rectified  in  a  certain  supernal  log- 
book, upon  whose  pages  Samuel  Prodder 
hoped  to  find  himself  set  down  as  an  honest 
and  active  sailor,  always  humbly  obedient  to 
the  signals  of  his  Commander. 

It  was  for  his  niece's  sake,  then,  that  the 
sailor  dreaded  any  discovery  of  his  where- 
abouts, and  it  was  for  her  sake  that  he  re- 
solved upon  exercising  the  greatest  degree 
of  caution  of  which  his  simple  nature  was 
capable. 

"  I  won't  ask  a  single  question,"  he  thought ; 


"  there  *s  sure  to  be  a  pack  of  lubbers  drop^ 
ping  in  here  by  and  by,  and  I  shall  hear  'era 
talking  about  the  business  as  likely  as  not. 
These  country  folks  would  have  nothing  to 
talk  about  if  they  did  n't  overhaul  the  ship's 
books  of  their  betters." 

The  captain  slept  soundly  for  upward  of  an 
hour,  and  was  awakened  at  the  end  of  that 
time  by  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  room,  and 
the  fumes  of  tobacco.  The  gas  was  flaring 
high  in  the  low-roofed  parlor  when  he  opened 
his  eyes,  and  at  first  he  could  scarcely  distin- 
guish the  occupants  of  the  room  for  the  blind- 
ing glare  of  light. 

"  I  won't  get  up,"  he  thought ;  "  I  'II  sham 
asleep  for  a  bit,  and  see  whether  they  happen 
to  talk  about  the  business." 

There  were  only  three  men  in  the  room. 
One  of  them  was  the  landlord,  whom  Samuel 
Prodder  had  seen  reading  in  the  bar ;  and  the 
other  two  were  shabby-looking  men,  with  by 
no  means  too  respectable  a  stamp  either  upon 
their  persons  or  their  manners.  One  of  them 
wore  a  velveteen  cut-away  coat  with  big  bra<« 
buttons,  knee-breeches,  blue  stockings,  and 
high-lows.  The  other  was  a  pale-faced  man, 
with  mutton-chop  whiskers,  and  dressed  in  a 
shabby-genteel  costume  that  gave  indication 
of  general  vagabondage  rather  than  of  any 
particular  occupation. 

They  were  talking  of  horses  when  Captain 
Prodder  awoke,  and  the  sailor  lay  fof  some 
time  listening  to  a  jargon  that  was  utterly  un- 
intelligible to  him.  The  men  talked  of  Lord 
Zetland's  lot,  of  Lord  Glasgow's  lot,  and  the 
Leger,  and  the  Cup,  and  made  ofiers  to  bet 
with  each  other,  and  quarrelled  about  the 
terms,  and  never  came  to  an  agreement,  in  a 
manner  that  was  utterly  bewildering  to  poor 
Samuel ;  but  he  waited  patiently,  still  feign- 
ing to  be  asleep,  and  ijot  in  any  way  disturbed 
by  the  men,  who  did  not  condescend  to  take 
any  notice  of  him. 

"  They  '11  talk  of  the  other  business  pres- 
ently," he  thought;  "  they  're  safe  to  talk  of 
it." 

Mr.  Prodder  was  right. 

After  discu.ssing  the  conflicting  merits  of 
half  the  horses  in  the  racing  calendar,  the 
three  men  abandoned  the  fascinating  subject ; 
and  the  landlord,  re-entering  the  room  after 
having  left  it  to  t'etvh  a  supply  of  beer  for  his 
guests,  asked  if  either  of  them  had  heard  if 
anything  new  had  turned  up  about  that  busi- 
ness at  Mellish. 

"  There  's  a  letter  in  to-day's  Guardian," 
he  added,  before  receiving  any  reply  to  his 
question,  •'  and  a  pretty  strong  one.  It  tries 
to  fix  the  murder  upon  some  one  in  the  house, 
but  it  don't  exactly  name  the  party.  It 
would  n't  be  safe  to  do  that  jet  a  while,  I 
suppose." 

Upon  the  request  of  the  two  men,  the  land- 
lord of  the  "  Crooked  Rabbit "  read  the  letter 
in  the  Manchester  daily  paper.    It  was  a  very 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


165 


clever  letter,  and  a  spirited  one,  giving  a  sy- 
nopsis of  the  proceedings  at  the  inquest,  and 
commenting  very  severely  upon  the  manner 
in  which  that  investigation  had  been  conduct- 
ed. Mr.  Prodder  quailed  until  the  Windsor 
chairs  trembled  beneath  him  as  the  landlord 
read  one  passage,  in  which  it  was  remarked 
that  the  sti-anger  who  carried  the  news  of  the 
murder  to  the  house  of  the  victiui's  employer, 
the  man  who  had  heard  the  report  of  the  pis- 
tol, and  had  been  chiefly  instrumental  in  th<; 
finding  of  the  bodj',  liad  not  been  forthcoming 
at  the  inquest. 

"  He  had  disappeared  mysteriously  and  ab- 
ruptly, and  no  eflbrts  were  made  to  find  him, ' 
wrote  the  correspondent  of  the  (Tiiardinn. 
"  What  assurance  can  be  given  for  the  safety 
of  any  man's  life  when  such  a  crime  as  tlie 
Mellish-Fark  murder  is  investigated  in  this 
loose  and  inditrerent  manner?  The  (catas- 
trophe occurred  witiiin  the  boundary  of  the 
Park  fence.  Let  it  be  discovered  whether 
any  person  in  the  Meliish  houselioM  had  a 
motive  for  the  (h'struction  of  James  Conyers. 
The  man  was  a  stranger  to  the  neighborhood. 
He  was  not  likely,  therefore,  to  have  made 
enemies  outside  the  boundary  of  his  employ- 
er's estate,  but  he  may  have  had  some  secret 
foe  witliin  that  limit.  Who  was  he  V  where 
did  he  come  from  ?  what  were  his  antecedents 
and  associations  V  Let  each  one  of  these 
questions  be  fully  sifted,  and  let  a  cordon  be 
drawn  round  tlie  house,  and  let  every  creature 
living  in  it  be  held  under  the  surveillance  of 
the  law  until  patient  investigation  has  done 
its  work,  and  such  evidence  has  been  collected 
as  must  lead  to  the  detection  of  the  guilty 
person." 

To  this  effect  was  the  letter  which  the 
landlord  read  in  a  loud  and  didactic  manner, 
that  was  very  imposing,  thougii  not  witiiont  a 
few  stumbles  over  some  hard  words,  and  a 
good  deal  of  slap-dash  junqiing  at  others 

Samuel  Prodder  could  make  very  little  of 
the  com[)osition,  except  that  it  was  perfectly 
clear  he  had  been  mi.ssed  at  the  inquest,  and 
his  absence  commented  upon.  The  landlord 
and  the  shabby-genteel  man  talked  long  and 
discursively  upon  the  matter ;  the  man  in  the 
velveteen  coat,  who  was  evidently  a  thorough- 
bred Cockney,  and  only  newly  arrived  in 
Doncaster,  required  to  be  told  the  whole  story 
before  he  was  upon  a  footing  with  the  other 
two.  He  was  very  (juiet,  and  generally  spoke 
between  his  teeth,  rarely  taking  the  unneces- 
sary trouble  of  removing  his  short  clay  pipe 
from  his  mouth  except  when  it  required  refill- 
ing. He  listened  to  the  story  of  the  murder 
very  intently,  keeping  one  eye  upon  the 
speaker  and  the  other  upon  his  pipe,  and 
nodding  approvingly  now  and  then  in  the 
course  of  the  narrative. 

He  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  when  the 
8tory  was  finished,  and  filled  it  from  a  autta- 
percha  pouch,  which  had  to  be  turned  mside 


out  in  some  mysterious  manner  before  the 
tobacco  could  be  extricated  from  it.  While 
he  was  packing  the  loose  fragments  of  shag  or 
bird's-eye  neatly  into  the  bowl  of  the  pipe 
with  his  stumpy  little  finger,  he  said,  with 
supreme  carelessness : 

"  I  know'd  Jim  Conyers." 

"  Did  you,  now  ?"  exclaimed  the  landlord, 
opening  his  e3'es  very  wide. 

"  I  know'd  him."  repeated  the  man,  "as  in- 
timate as  I  know'd  my  own  mother;  and  when 
I  read  of  the  murder  in  the  newspaper  last 
Sunday,  you  might  have  knocked  me  down 
with  a  feather.  'Jim  's  got  it  at  last,'  I  said  ; 
for  he  was  one  of  them  coves  that  goes 
through  the  world  eock-adoodling  over  other 
people  to  sich  an  extent  that,  when  they  do 
drop  in  for  it,  there  's  not  many  jtartieular 
sorry  for  'em.  He  was  one  of  your  selfish 
chaps,  this  here ;  and  when  a  chap  goes 
through  this  life  makin'  it  his  Icadin'  princi- 
ple to  care  about  nobody,  he  must  n't  be 
surprised  if  it  ends  by  nobody  cariii'  for  him. 
Yes,  I  know'd  Jim  Conyers,"  added  the  man, 
slowly  and  thoughtfully,  "  and  I  know'd  hitn 
under  rather  pecooliar  circumstanires." 

The  landlord  and  the  other  man  pricked 
up  their  ears  at  this  point  of  the  conversation. 

The  trainer  at  Meliish  Park  had,  as  we 
know,  risen  to  popularity  from  the  hour  in 
which  he  had  fallen  upon  the  dcAvy  turf  in  the 
wood,  shot  through  the  heart. 

"  If  there  was  n't  any  partiklar  objections," 
the  landlord  of  the  "Crooked  Rabbit"  said, 
presently,  "  I  should  oncommonly  like  to  hear 
anything  you  've  got  to  tell  about  the  poor 
chap.  There  's  a  deal  of  interest  took  about 
the  matter  in  Doncaster,  and  my  customers 
have  scarcely  talked  of  anytiiing  else  since 
the  incjuest." 

The  man  in  the  velveteen  coat  rubbed  his 
chin,  and  smoked  his  pipe  reflectively.  He 
was  evidently  not  a  very  (tommunicative  man, 
but  it  was  also  evident  that  he  was  rather 
gratified  by  the  distinction  of  his  position  in 
the  little  public-house  parlor. 

This  man  was  no  other  than  Mr.  Matthew 
Harrison,  the  dog-fancier,  Aurora's  pen.sioner, 
the  man  who  had  traded  upon  her  secret, 
and  made  himself  the  last  link  between  her- 
self and  the  low-born  husband  she  had  xban- 
doned. 

Samuel  Prodder  lifted  himself  from  the 
Windsor  chairs  at  this  juncture.  He  was  too 
much  interested  in  the  conversation  to  be  able 
to  simulate  sleep  any  longer.  He  got  up, 
stretched  his  legs  and  arms,  made  an  elabor- 
ate .show  of  having  just  awakened  from  a 
profound  and  refreshing  slumber,  and  a.sked 
the  landlord  of  the  "  Crooked  Rabbit "  to 
mix  him  another  gla.s.s  of  that  pineapple-rum 

The  captain  lighted  his  pipe  while  his  host 
departed  upon  this  errand.  The  seaman 
glanced  rather  inquisitively  at  Mr.  Harrison  ; 


166 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


but  he  was  fain  to  wait  until  the  conversa- 
tion took  its  own  course,  and  offered  him  a 
safe  opportunity  of  askintj  a  few  questions. 

"  The  pecooliar  circumstances  under  wliich 
I  know'd  James  Conjers,"  pursued  the  dog- 
faacier,  after  having  taken  bis  own  time,  and 
smoked  out  half  a  pipeful  of  tobacco,  to  the 
acute  aggravation  of  his  auditory,  '•  was  a 
woman  —  and  a  stunner  she  was,  too ;  one 
of  your  regular  spitfires,  that  '11  knock 
you  into  the  middle  of  next  week  if  you  so 
much  as  asks  her  liow  she  does  in  a  manner 
she  don't  approve  of.  She  was  a  woman,  she 
was,  and  a  handsome  one  too ;  but  she  was 
more  than  a  match  for  James,  with  all  his 
brass.  Why,  I  've  seen  her  great  black  eyes 
flash  fire  upon  him,"  said  Mr.  Harrison,  look- 
ing dreamily  before  him,  as  if  he  could  even 
at  that  moment  see  the  flashing  eyes  of  which 
he  spoke —  "  I  've  seen  her  look  at  him  as  if 
she  'd  wither  him  up  from  off  the  ground  he 
trod  upon  with  that  contempt  she  felt  for 
him." 

Samuel  Prodder  grew  strangely  uneasy  as 
he  listened  to  this  man's  talk  of  flashing  black 
eyes  and  angry  looks  directed  at  James  Con- 
yers.  Had  he  not  seen  his  niece's  shining 
orbs  flame  fiie  upon  the  dead  man  only  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  he.  received  his 
death-wound — only  so  long  —  Hea'ven  help 
that  wreU^hed  girl ! — only  so  long  before  the 
man  for  whom  she  had  expressed  unmitigated 
hate  had  fallen  by  the  hand  of  an  unknown 
murderer  ? 

"  She  must  have  been  a  tartar,  this  young 
woman  of  yours,"  tlte  landlord  observed  to 
Mr.  Harrison. 

"  She  was  a  tartar,"  answered  the  dog-fan- 
cier ;  "  but  she  was  the  right  sort,  too,  ibr  all 
that;  and,  wliat  's  more,  she  was  a  kind  friend 
to  me.  There  's  never  a  quarter-day  goes  by 
that  I  don't  have  cause  to  say  so." 

He  poured  out  a  fresh  glass  of  beer  as  he 
spoke,  and  tossed  the  liquor  down  his  capa- 
cious throat  with  the  muttered  sentiment, 
"  Here  's  toward  her." 

Another  man  had  entered  the  room  while 
Mr.  Prodder  had  sat  smoking  his  pipe  and 
drinking  his  rum  and  water — a  hump-backed, 
white-faced  man,  who  sneaked  into  the  public- 
house  parlor  as  if  he  had  no  right  to  be  there, 
and  seated  himself  noiselessly  at  one  of  the 
tables. 

Samuel  Prodder  remembei-ed  this  man.  He 
had  seen  him  through  the  window  in  the  light- 
ed parlor  of  the  north  lodge  when  the  body  of 
James  Conyers  had  been  carried  into  the  cot- 
tage. It  was  not  likely,  however,  that  the 
man  had  seen  the  captain. 

"Why,  if  it  is  n't  Steeve  Hargraves,  trom 
the  Park  .'"'exclaimed  the  landlord,  as  he  look- 
ed round  and  recognized  the  softy  ;  "  he  '11  be 
able  to  tell  plenty,  I  dare  say.  We  've  been 
talking  of  the  murder,  Steeve,"  he  added,  in 
a  conciliatory  manner. 


Mr.  Hargraves  rubbed  his  clumsy  hands 
about  his  head,  and  looked  furtively,  yet 
searchingly,  at  each  member  of  the  little  as- 
sembly. 

"  Ay,  sure,"  he  said,  "  folks  don't  seem  to 
me  to  talk  about  aught  else.  It  was  bad 
enough  up  at  the  Park,  but  it  seems  worse  in 
Doncaster." 

''Are  you  stayin'  up  town,  Steeve  '?'  asked 
the  landlord,  who  seemed  to  be  upon  pretty 
intimate  terms  with  the  late  hanger-on  of 
Mellish  Park. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  stayin'  oop  town  for  a  bit ;  I  've 
been  out  of  place  since  the  business  oop  there; 
you  know  how  I  was  turned  out  of  the  house 
that  had  sheltered  me  ever  since  I  was  a  boy, 
and  you  know  who  did  it.  Never  mind  that; 
I  'm  out  of  place  now,  but  you  may  draw  me  a 
nmg  of  ale ;  I  've  money  enough  for  that." 

Sanniel  Prodder  looked  at  the  softy  with 
considerable  interest.  He  had  played  a  small 
part  in  the  great  catastropiie,  yet  it  was 
scarcely  likely  that  he  should  be  able  to  throw 
any  light  upon  the  mystery.  What  was  he 
but  a  poor  halt-witted  hanger-on  of  the  mur- 
dered man,  who  had  lost  all  by  his  patron's 
untimely  death  V 

The  sofly  drank  his  l)eer,  and  sat,  silent, 
ungainly,  and  disagreeable  to  look  upon, 
among  the  other  men. 

"  There  's  a  reg'lar  stir  in  the  Manchester 
papers  about  this  murder,  Steeve,"  the  land- 
lord said,  by  way  of  opening  a  conversation; 
"it  don't  seem  to  me  as  if  the  business  waa 
goin'  to  be  let  drop  over  quiotl}-.  There  'II 
be  a  second  inquest,  I  I'eckon,  or  a  examina- 
tion, or  a  memorial  to  the  Secretary  of  State, 
or  summat  o'  that  sort,  before  long." 

The  softy's  face,  expressionless  almost  always, 
expressed  nothing  now  but  stolid  indifference  ; 
the  stupid  indifference  of  a  half-witted  igno- 
ramus, to  whose  impenetrable  intellect  even 
tlie  murder  of  his  own  master  was  a  far-away 
and  obscure  event,  not  powerful  enough  to 
awaken  any  effort  of  attention. 

"Yes;  I  '11  lay  there  'II  be  a  stir  about  it 
before  long,"  the  landlord  continued.  "  The 
papers  put  it  down  very  strong  that  the  mur- 
der must  have  been  done  by  some  one  in  the 
house  —  by  some  one  as  ha<l  more  knowledge 
of  the  man,  and  more  rea.son  to  be  angry 
against  him,  than  strangers  could  have.  Now 
you,  Hargraves,  were  living  at  the  place ; 
you  must  have  seen  and  heard  things  that 
other  people  have  n  t  had  the  opportunity  to 
hear.     Wliat  do  you  think  about  it  ?" 

Mr.  Hargraves  scratched  his  head  reflect- 
ively. 

"  The  papers  are  cleverer  nor  me,"  he  said 
at  last :  "  it  would  n't  do  for  a  poor  fond  chap 
like  me  to  go  again*  such  as  them.  I  think 
what  they  think.  I  think  it  was  some  one 
about  the  place  did  it;  some  one  that  had 
good  reason  to  be  spiteful  against  him  that  'a 
dead." 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


167 


An  imperceptible  shudder  passed  over  the 
softy's  frame  as  he  alhided  to  the  murdered 
man.  It  was  strange  witli  what  gusto  the 
otlier  three  men  discussed  the  ghastly  subject, 
returning  to  it  persistently  in  spite  of  every 
interruption,  and  in  a  manner  licking  their 
lips  over  its  gloomiest  details.  It  was  surely 
more  strange  that  they  should  do  this  than  that 
Stephen  Haigraves  should  exhibit  some  reluc-  j 
tance  to  talk  freely  upon  the  disuial  topic.        1 

"  And  who  do  you  think  had  cause  to  be  j 
spiteful  agen  him,  Steeve  ?"  asked  the  land-  i 
lord.  "  Had  him  and  Mr.  Mellish  fell  out  ! 
about  tiio  management  of  the  stable  V" 

"  Him  and  Mr.  Mellish  had  never  had  an 
angry  word  pass  between  'em,  as  I  've  heard 
of,"  answered  the  softy. 

He  laid  such  a  singular  emphasis  upon  the 
word  Mr.  that  the  three  men  looked  at  him 
wonderlngly,  an<l  Captain  Prodder  took  his 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  grasped  the  back  of 
a  neighboring  chair  as  firmly  as  if  he  had  en- 
tertained serious  thoughts  of  flinging  that 
trifle  of  furniture  at  the  softy's  head. 

"  Who  else  could  it  have  been,  then,  as  had 
a  spite  against  the  man  ?"  asked  some  one. 

Samuel  Pnjdder  scarcely  knew  who  it  was 
who  spoke,  ibr  his  attention  was  concentrated 
upon  Steplien  Hargraves  ;  and  he  never  once 
removed  his  gaze  from  tiie  white  face,  and 
dull,  blinking  eyes. 

"  Who  was  it  that  went  to  meet  him  late  at 
night  in  the  north  lodge?"  whispered  the 
softy.  "  AVho  was  it  that  could  n't  find  words 
that  was  bad  enough  for  him,  or  looks  that 
was  angry  enough  for  him  ?  Who  was  it  that 
wrote  him  a  letter  —  I  'vc  got  it,  and  I  mean 
to  keep  it,  too  —  askin'  of  him  to  be  in  the 
wood  at  such  and  such  a  time  upon  the  very 
night  of  the  murder?  Who  was  it  that  met 
him  there  in  the  dark — as  others  could  tell  as 
well  as  me  ?     Who  was  it  that  did  this  ?" 

No  one  answered.  The  men  looked  at  each 
other  and  at  the  softy  with  open  mouths,  but 
said  nothing.  Samuel  Prodder  grasped  the 
topmost  bar  of  the  wooden  chair  still  more 
tightly,  and  his  broad  bosom  lose  and  fell  be- 
neath his  touiist  waistcoat  like  a  raging  sea  ; 
but  he  .sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  (jueerly-sliaped 
room,  and  no  oiu;  noticed  him. 

"Who  was  it  that  ran  away  from  her  own 
home,  and  hid  herself  after  the  inquest?" 
whispered  the  softy.  "Who  was  it  that  was 
afraid  to  stop  in  her  own  house,  but  must  rim 
away  to  London  without  leaving  word  where 
she  was  gone  (or  anyljoily  ?  Who  was  it  that 
was  seen  upon  the  mornin'  before  the  murder 
meddlin'  with  her  husband's  guns  and  pistols, 
and  was  so'U  hy  more  than  me,  as  them  that 
saw  her  will  testify  when  the  time  comes  ? 
Who  was  this  ?" 

Again  there  was  no  answer.  The  raging 
sea  labored  still  more  heavily  under  Captain 
Prodders  waistcoat,  and  his  grasp  tightened, 
if  it  could  tighten,  oB  the  rail  of  the  chair; 


but  he  uttered  no  word.  There  was  more  to 
come,  perhaps,  yet,  and  he  might  want  every 
chair  in  the  room  as  instruments  with  which 
to  appease  his  venceance. 

''  You  was  talkin',  when  I  just  came  in,  a 
while  ago,  of  a  young  woman  in  connection 
with  Mr.  James  Conyers,  sir,"  said  the  softy, 
turning  to  Matthew  Harrison  ;  "  a  black-eyed 
woman,  you  said ;  might  she  have  been  his 
wife  ?" 

The  dog-fancier  started,  and  deliberated  for 
a  few  moments  before  he  answered. 

"Well,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  she  was 
his  wife,"  he  said  at  last,  rather  reluctantly. 

"  She  was  a  bit  above  him,  loikc,  was  n't 
she  ?"  asked  the  softy.  "  She  had  more  money 
than  she  knew  what  to  do  with,  eh  ?" 

The  dog-fancier  stared  at  the  questioner. 

"  You  know  who  she  was,  I  suppose  ?"  he 
said,  suspiciously. 

"  I  think  I  do,"  whispered  Stephen  Har- 
graves. "  She  was  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
Floyd,  the  rich  banker  oop  in  London  ;  and 
she  married  James  Conyers,  and  she  got  tired 
of  him ;  and  she  married  our  s(iuire  while  her 
first  husband  was  alive;  and  she  wrote  a  let- 
ter to  him  that's  dead,  askin'  of  him  to  meet 
her  upon  the  ni^ht  of  the  murder." 

Captain  Prodder  flung  aside  the  chair.  It 
was  too  poor  a  weapon  with  which  to  wreak 
his  wrath,  and  with  one  bound  he  sprang  upo« 
the  softy,  seizing  the  astonished  Avretch  by 
the  throat,  and  overturning  a  table,  with  a 
heap  of  crashing  glasses  and  pewter  pots, 
that  rolled  away  into  the  corntirs  of  the  room. 

•'  It  's  a  lie  !"  roared  the  sailor,  "  you  foul- 
mouthed  hound !  you  know  that  it  's  a  lie  I 
Give  me  something,"  cried  Captain  Prodder, 
"  cive  me  something,  somebody,  and  give  it 
quick,  that  I  may  pounil  this  man  into  a  mash 
as  sofi  as  a  soaked  ship's  biscuit;  for  if  I  u.se 
my  fists  to  him  1  shall  murder  him,  as  sure  aa 
I  stand  here.  It  's  my  sister  Eliza's  child  you 
want  to  slander,  is  it?  You  'd  better  have 
kept  your  mouth  shut  while  you  was  in  her 
own  uncle's  company.  I  nu>ant  to  have  kep' 
quiet  here,"  cried  the  captain,  with  a  vague 
recollection  that  he  had  betrayed  himself  and 
his  purpose  ;  "  but  was  I  to  keep  quiet  and 
hear  lies  told  of  my  own  niece  ?  Take  care," 
he  added,  shaking  the  .«ofty,  till  Mr.  Har- 
graves' teeth  chattered  in  his  head,  "  or  I  'U 
knock  those  crooked  teeth  of  yours  down 
your  ugly  throat,  to  hinder  yon  from  telling 
any  more  lies  of  my  dead  sister's  only  child." 

"  They  were  n't  lies,"  gasped  the  softy,  dog- 
gedly ;  "  I  said  I  've  got  the  letter,  and  I  have 
got  it.     Let  me  go,  and  I  '11  show  it  to  you." 

The  sailor  released  the  dirty  wisp  of  cotton 
neckerchief  by  which  he  had  held  Stephen 
Margraves,  but  he  still  retained  a  grasp  upoa 
his  coat-collar. 

"  Shall  I  show  you  the  letter  ?"  asked  the 
softy. 
"  Yes." 


168 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Mr.  Harffraves  fumbled  in  his  pockets  for 
some  minutes,  and  ultimately  produced  a  dirty 
scrap  of  crumpled  paper. 

It  was  the  brief  scrawl  which  Aurora  had 
■written  to  James  Conyers,  tellinji  him  to  meet 
her  in  the  wood.  The  murdered  man  had 
thrown  it  carelessly  aside,  after  readinjr  it, 
and  it  had  been  picked  up  by  Stephen  Har- 
graves. 

He  would  not  trust  the  precious  document 
out  of  his  own  clumsy  hands,  but  held  it  be- 
fore Captain  Prodder  for  inspection. 

The  sailor  stared  at  it,  anxious,  bewildered, 
fearful;  he  scarcely  knew  how  to  estimate  the 
importance  of  the  wretched  scrap  of  circum- 
etantial  evidence.  There  were  the  words, 
certainly,  written  in  a  bold,  .scarcely  feminine 
hand.  But  these  words  in  themselves  proved 
nothing  until  it  could  be  proved  that  his  niece 
had  written  them. 

*'  How  do  T  know  as  my  .sister  Eliza's  child 
wrote  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Ay,  sure;  but  she  did,  though,"  answered 
the  softy.  "  But,  coom,  lot  me  go  now,  will 
you  ?"  he  added,  with  cringing  civility  ;  "  I 
did  n't  know  you  was  her  uncle.  How  was  I 
to  know  aught  about  it  V  I  dont  want  to 
make  any  mischief  agen  Mrs.  Mellish,  though 
she  's  been  no  friend  to  me.  I  did  n't  say 
anything  at  the  inquest,  did  I?  though  I 
might  have  said  as  much  as  I  've  said  to- 
night, if  it  comes  to  that,  and  have  told  no 
lie.s.  But  when  folks  bother  me  about  him 
that  's  dead,  and  ask  this,  and  that,  and  t' 
other,  and  go  on  as  if  I  had  a  right  to  know 
all  about  if,  I  'm  free  to  tell  my  thouglUs,  I 
suppose — surely  I  'm  free  to  tell  my  thoughts?" 

'•  I  '11  go  straight  to  Mr.  Mellish.  and  tell 
him  what  you  've  said,  you  scoundrel !"  cried 
the  captain. 

"  Ay,  do,"  whispered  Stephen  Hargraves, 
maliciously;  "there  's  some  of  it 
stale  news  to  him,  anyhow." 


that  '11  be 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

D18COVEKT  OK    THK    WE.\PON    WITH    WHICH 
JAMES  CONVKKS  HAD  BEKN  SLAIH. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish  returned  to  the  house  I 
in  which  they  had  been  so  happy;  but  it  is  not  j 
to  be  supposed  that  the  pleasant  country  man-  j 
sion  could  be  again,  all  in  a  moment,  the  home  | 
that  it  had  been  before  the  advent  of  James 
Conyers,  the  trainer,  and  the  tragedy  that  j 
had  so  abruptly  concluded  his  brief  service. 

No ;  every  pang  that  Aurora  had  felt,  \ 
every  .agony  that  John  had  endured,  had 
left  a  certain  impress  upon  the  scene  in  which  ' 
it  had  been  suffered.  The  subtle  influences  \ 
of  association  hung  heavily  about  the  familiar  j 
place.  AVe  are  the  slaves  of  such  associations,  : 
and  we  are  powerless  to  stand  against  their  | 
silent  force.     Scraps  of  color  and  patches  of  i 


gilding  upon  the  walla  will  bear  upon  them, 
as  plainly  as  if  they  were  covered  with 
hieroglyphical  Inscriptions,  the  shadow.i  of 
the  thoughts  of  those  who  have  looked  upon 
them.  Transient  and  chance  effects  of  light 
or  shade  will  recall  the  same  effects,  seen  and 
observed  —  as  Fagin  observed  the  broken 
spike  upon  the  guarded  dock — in  some  hor- 
rible crisis  of  misery  and  despair.  The  com- 
monest household  goods  and  chattels  will  bear 
mute  witness  of  your  agonies:  an  easy-chair 
will  say  to  you,  "  It  was  upon  me  you  cast 
yourself  In  that  paro.xysm  of  rage  and  grief;" 
the  pattern  of  a  diuner-servico  may  recall  to 
you  that  fatal  day  on  which  you  pushed  your 
food  untasted  from  you,  and  turned  your  face, 
like  grief-stricken  King  David,  to  the  wall.' 
The  bed  you  lay  upon,  the  curtains  that  shel- 
tered you,  the  pattern  of  the  paper  on  the 
walls,  the  common  every-day  sounds  of  the 
household,  coming  muffled  and  far-away  to 
that  lonely  room  in  which  you  hid  yourself, 
all  these  bear  record  of  your  sorrow,  and  of 
that  liidcous  double  action  of  the  mind  which 
Impresses  these  things  most  vividly  upon  you 
at  the  very  time  when  It  would  seem  they 
should  be  most  IndifTereiit. 

But  every  sorrow,  every  pang  of  wounded 
love,  or  doubt,  or  jealousy,  or  despair,  -is  a 
fact — a  fact  once,  and  a  fact  for  ever  ;  to  be 
outlived,  but  very  rarely  to  be  forgotten  ; 
leaving  such  an  impress  upon  our  lives  as 
no  future  joys  can  quite  wear  out.  The  mur- 
der has  been  done,  and  the  hands  are  red. 
The  sorrow  has  been  suffered ;  and,  however 
beautiful  IIaj)pine.ss  may  be  to  us,  slie  can 
never  be  the  bright  virginal  creature  she  once 
was,  for  she  has  passed  through  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death,  and  we  have  discovered 
that  she  is  not  immortal. 

It  is  not  to  be  expected,  tlien,  that  John 
Mellish  and  his  wife  Aurora  could  fee!  quite 
the  same  in  the  pretty  chambers  of  the  York- 
shire mansion  as  they  had  felt  before  the  first 
shipwreck  of  their  happiness.  They  had 
been  saved  from  peril  and  destruction,  and 
landed,  by  the  mercy  of  Providence,  high  and 
dry  upon  a  shore  that  seemed  to  promise 
them  pleasure  and  security  henceforth.  But 
the  memory  of  the  tempest  was  yet  new  to 
them ;  and  upon  the  sands  that  were  so  smooth 
to-day  they  had  seen  yesterday  the  breakers 
beating  with  furious  menace,  and  hurrying 
onward  to  destroy  them. 

The  funeral  of  the  trainer  had  not  yet 
taken  place,  and  It  was  scarcely  a  pleasant 
thing  for  Mr.  Mellish  to  remember  that  the 
body  of  the  murdered  man  still  lay,  stark 
and  awful,  in  the  oak  coffin  that  stood  upon 
trestles  in  the  rustic  chamber  at  the  north 
lodge. 

'•  I  '11  pull  that  place  down,  Lolly,"  said 
John,  a.s  he  turned  away  fron\  an  open  win- 
dow, through  which  he  could  .see  the  Gothic 
chimnevs  of  the  trainees  late  habitation  glim- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


169 


mcrincr  redly  above  tbe  trees.  "  1  'II  pull  the  I 
place  down,  my  pet.  The  gates  are  never  ! 
used,  except  by  the  stable-boys;  I  '11  knock 
them  down,  and  the  lodge  too,  and  build  some  j 
loose  boxe.s  for  the  brood-mares  with  the  ma-  j 
t«rials.  And  we  '11  go  away  to  the  south  of 
France,  darling,  and  run  across  to  Italy,  if 
yon  like,  and  forget  all  about  this  horrid 
business." 

"  The  funeral  will  take  place  to-morrow, 
John,  will  it  Tiot  ?"  Aurora  asked. 

"  To-morrow,  dear !  to-morrow  is  Wednes- 
daVi  vou  know.  It  was  upon  Thursday  nijjht 
that-^" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  answej'ed,  interrupting  him, 
"  I  know — I  remember." 

She  shuddered  as  she  spoke,  remembering 
the  ghastly  circumstances  of  the  night  to 
which  he  alluded  —  remembering  how  the 
dead  man  had  stood  before  her,  strong  in 
healtli  and  vitality,  and  had  insolently  dcfieil 
her  hatred.  Away  from  Mellish  Park,  she 
had  f)n!y  remembered  that  the  burden  of  her 
life  had  been  removed  from  her,  and  that  slie 
was  free.  But  here — here,  upon  the  scene  of 
the  hideous  story — she  recollected  the  manner 
of  her  release,  and  that  luemory  op[)ressed 
her  even  moie  terribly  than  her  old  secret, 
her  only  sorrow. 

She  had  never  seen  or  known  in  this  man 
who  had  been  murdered  one  redeeming  qual- 
ity, one  generous  thought.  Siie  had  known 
him  as  a  liar,  a  .schemer,  a  low  and  paltry 
swindler,  a  selfish  spendthrift,  e.xtravagaTit  to 
wantonness  upon  himself,  but  meaner  than 
words  could  tell  toward  others  ;  a  profligate, 
a  traitor,  a  glutton,  a  drunkard.  This  is  what 
she  had  found  behind  her  school-girl's  fancy 
for  a  handsomer  face,  for  violet-tinted  eyes, 
and  ,«oft  brown  curling  hair.  Do  not  call  her 
hard,  then,  if  sorrow  had  no  part  in  the  shud- 
dering horror  she  felt  as  she  conjured  up  the 
image  of  him  in  his  death-liour,  and  saw  the 
glazing  eyes  turned  angrily  upon  her.  She 
v/as  little  more  than  twenty;  and  it  had  been 
her  fate  always  to  take  the  wrong  stej), 
always  to  be  misled  by  the  vague  fingei*- 
post^s  upon  life's  high  -  road,  and  to  choose 
the  longest,  and  crookedest,  and  hardest  way 
toward  the  goal  she  souglit  to  reack. 

na<l  she,  u|)on  the  discoTcry  of  the  first 
husband's  infidelity,  called  the  law  to  her 
aid  —  she  was  rich  enough  to  conmiand  its 
utmost  help,  though  Sir  Cresswell  Cresswcll 
did  not  then  keep  the  turnpike  upon  such  a 
royal  rcjad  to  divorce  as  he  does  now  —  she 
might  have  freed  her.self  from  the  hateful 
chains  so  foolishly  linked  together,  and  might 
have  defied  this  dead  man  to  torment  or 
Assail  her. 

But  she  had  chosen  to  follow  the  counsel  Sf 
expediency,  and  it  had  led  her  upon  the 
crooked  way  throuirh  which  I  have  striven  to 
follow  her.  I  feel  that  there  is  much  need  of 
ajMilogy  for  her.     Her  own  hands  had  sown 


the  dragon's  teeth,  from  whose  evil  seed  had 
sprung  up  armed  men  strong  enough  to  rend 
and  devour  her.  But  then,  if  she  had  been 
faultless,  she  could  not  have  been  the  heroine 
of  this  story ;  for  I  think  some  wise  man  of 
old  remarked  that  the  perfect  women  were 
tho.se  who  left  no  histories  behind  them,  but 
went  through  life  upon  such  a  tranquil  course 
of  quiet  well-doing  as  left  no  footprints  on  the 
sands  of  time;  only  mute  records  hidden  here 
and  there,  deep  in  t\n'  grateful  hearts  of  those 
who  had  been  blessed  by  them. 

The  presence  of  the  dead  man  within  the 
boundary  of  Mellish  Park  made  itself  felt 
throughout  the  household  that  had  once  been 
such  a  jovial  one.  Tiie  excitement  of  the 
catnstrophe  had  passed  away,  and  only  the 
dull  gloom  remained  —  a  sense  of  oppression 
not  to  be  cast  aside.  It  was  felt  in  the  ser- 
vants' hall  as  well  as.  in  .Aurora's  luxurious 
apartments.  It  was  felt  by  the  butler  as  well 
as  by  the  master.  No  worse  deed  of  violence 
than  the  slaughter  of  an  unhappy  stag,  who 
had  rushed  for  a  last  refuge  to  the  Mellish 
flower-garden,  and  had  been  run  down  by 
furious  hounds  upon  the  velvet  lawn,  had 
ever  before  been  done  within  the  boundary 
of  the  young  squire's  home.  The  house  was 
an  old  one,  and  had  stood,  gray  and  ivy- 
sln-ouded,  through  the  perilous  days  of  civil 
war.  There  were  secret  ])assages,  in  which 
loyal  squires  of  Mellish  had  hidden  from 
ferocious  Roundheads  bent  upon  riot  and 
plunder.  There  were  broad  hearth-stones, 
upon  which  sturdy  blows  had  been  given  and 
exchanged  by  strong  men  in  leathern  jerkins 
ajid  clumsy  iron-heeled  boots;  but  the  Roy- 
alist Mellish  had  always  ultimately  escaped — 
up  a  cliimncy,  or  down  a  cellar,  or  beiiind  a 
curtain  of  tapestry  ;  and  the  wicked  Praise- 
thc-Lord  Thompsons  and  Smiter-of-the-Philis- 
tines  .loncses  had  departed  after  plundering 
the  plate-chest  and  emptying  the  wine-bar- 
rels. There  had  never  betbre  been  .set  upon 
the  place  in  which  John  Mellisli  had  first  seen 
the  light  the  red  hand  of  Muudkk. 

It  was  not  strange,  then,  that  the  servants 
sat  long  over  their  meals,  and  talked  in 
solemn  whispers  of  the  events  of  the  past 
week.  There  was  more  than  the  murder  to 
talk  about.  There  was  the  flight  of  Mrs. 
Mellish  from  beneath  her  husband's  roof 
upon  the  very  day  of  the  inquest.  It  was 
all  very  well  for  John  to  give  out  that  his 
wife  had  gone  up  to  town  upon  a  visit  to  her 
cousin,  Mrs.  Bulstrode.  Such  ladies  as  Mi's. 
Mellisli  do  not  go  upon  visits  without  escort, 
without  a  word  of  notice,  without  the  poorest 
pretence  of  bag  and  baggage.  No;  the  mis- 
tress of  Mellish  Park  had  fled  away  from  her 
home  under  the  influence  of  some  sudden 
panic.  Had  not  Mrs.  Powell  said  as  much,  or 
hinted  as  much?  for  whi'u  did  the  lady-like 
creature  ever  vulgarize  her  opinions  by  stat- 
ing them  plainly  V     The  matter  was  obvious. 


170 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Mr.  Mellisli  had  taken,  no  doubt,  tlie,  wise.st 
course ;  lu;  had  pui-siied  liis  wife,  and  brought 
her  baek,  and  had  done  his  best  to  husli  u]) 
tlie  Hiatter ;  but  Aurora's  departure  had  been 
a  fli<iht — a  sudden  and  unpremeditated  Hight. 

The  lady's  maid  —  ah!  how  many  hand- 
some dresses,  given  to  her  by  a  generous  mis- 
tress, Lay  neatly  folded  in  the  girl's  boxes  on 
the  second  story  ! — told  how  Aurora  had  come 
to  her  room,  pale  and  wild-looking,  and  had 
dressed  lierself  unassisted  for  that  hurried 
journey  upon  the  day  of  the  inquest.  The 
girl  liked  her  mistress,  loved  her,  perhaps;  for 
Aurora  had  a  wondrous  and  almost  dangerous 
faculty  for  winning  the  love  of  those  who 
came  near  her;  but  it  M-as  so  pleasant  to 
have  something  to  say  about  this  all-absorbing 
topic,  aaid  to  be  able  to  make  one's  self  a 
feature  in  the  solemn  conclave.  At  first  they 
had  talked  oid}'  of  the  murdered  man,  specu- 
lating upon  his  life  and  history,  and  building 
up  a  dozen  theoretical  views  of  the  murder. 
But  the  tidi'.  had  turned  now,  and  they  talked 
of  their  mistress  ;  not  connecUing  her  in  any 
positive  or  openly-expressed  mclnner  with  the 
murder,  but  commenting  upou  the  strange- 
ness of  her  conduct,  and  dwelling  much  U|)on 
those  singular  coincidences  by  which  she  had 
happened  to  be  roaming  in  the  dark  upon  the 
night  of  the  catastrophe,  and  to  run  away 
from  her  home  upou  the' day  of  the  inquest. 

"  It  was  odd,  you  know,"  the  cook  said  ; 
'*  and  them  black-eyed  women  are  generally 
regular  spirit}'  ones.  /  should  n't  like  to 
offend  Master  John's  wife.  Do  you  remember 
how  she  i)aid  into  t'  softy  V" 

"  But  there  was  nought  o'  sort  between 
her  and  the  trainer,  was  there?'  asked  some 
one. 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  But  softy  said 
she  hated  him  like  poison,  and  that  there  was 
no  love  lost  between  'em." 

But  why  should  Aurora  have  hated  the 
dead  man  V  The  ensign's  widow  had  left  the 
sting  of  her  venom  behind  her,  and  had  sug- 
gested to  the.se  servants,  by  hints  and  innu- 
endoes, something  so  far  more  base  and  hide- 
ous than  the  truth  that  I  will  not  sully  these 
pages  by  recording  it.  But  Mrs.  Powell  had 
of  course  done  this  foul  thing  without  the 
utterance  of  one  ugly  word  that  could  have 
told  against  her  gentility,  had  it  been  re- 
peated aloud  in  a  crowded  drawing-room. 
8he  had  only  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
lifted  her  straw-colored  eyebrows,  and  sighed 
half  regretfully,  half  deprecatingly  ;  but  she 
had  blasted  the  character  of  the  woman  she 
hated  as  shamefully  as  if  she  had  uttered  a 
libel  too  gross  for  Holywell  street.  She  had 
done  a  wrong  that  could  only  be  undone  by 
the  exhibition  of  the  blood-stained  certificate 
in  John's  keei)ing,  and  the  revelation  of  the 
whole  story  connected  with  that  fatal  scrap  of 
paper.  She  had  done  thi.s  before  packing  her 
boxes  ;  and  she  had  gone  away  from  the  house 


that  had  sheltered  her  well  pleased  at  having 
done  this  wrong,  and  comtbrting  herself  yet 
farther  by  the  intention  of  doing  more  mis- 
chief through  the  medium  of  the  ])enny-post. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  Man- 
chester paper,  which  had  caused  so  serious 
a  discussion  in  the  humble  parlor  of  the 
"  Crooked  Rabbit,"  had  been  overlooked  in 
the  servants'  hall  at  Mellish.  The  Man- 
chester journals  were  regularly  forwarded  to 
the  young  squire  from  the  metropolis  of 
cotton -spinning  and  horse-racing,  and  the 
mysterious  letter  in  the  Guardian  had  been 
read  and  commented  upon.  Every  creature 
in  that  household,  from  the  fat  housekeeper 
who  had  kept  the  keys  of  the  store-room 
through  nearly  three  generations,  to  the  rheu- 
matic trainer,  Langley,  had  a  cei'tain  interest 
In  the  awliil  question.  A  nervous  lootman 
turned  pale  as  that  passage  was  read  which 
declared  that  the  murder  had  been  com- 
mitted by  some  member  of  the  household ; 
but  I  think  there  were  some  younger  and 
more  adventurous  spirits — especially  a  pretty 
housemaid,  who  had  seen  the  thrilling  drama 
of  Susan  Ilopley  performed  at  the  Doncaster 
Theatre  during  the  spring  meeting — who 
would  have  rather  liked  to  be  accused  of  the 
crime,  and  to  emerge  spotless  and  triumphant 
from  the  judicial  ordeal,  through  the  evidence 
of  an  idiot,  or  a  magpie,  or  a  ghost,  or  some 
other  witness  common  and  popular  in  criminal 
courts. 

Did  Aui-ora  know  anything  of  all  this  ? 
No;  she  onTy  knew  that  a  dull  and  heavy 
sense  of  oj)pression  in  her  own  breast  made 
the  very  summer  atmosphere  floating  in  at 
the  open  windows  seem  stifling  and  poison- 
ous; that  the  house,  which  had  once  been  so 
dear  to  her,  was  as  painfully  and  perpetually 
haunted  by  the  ghastly  presence  of  the  mur- 
dered man  as  if  the  dead  trainer  had  stalked 
j)alpably  about  the  corridors  wrapped  in  a 
blood-stained  winding-sheet. 

She  dined  with  her  husband  alone  in  the 
great  dining-room.  Many  people  had  called 
during  the  two  days  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mel- 
lish had  been  absent;  among  others,  the 
rector,  Mr.  Lofthouse,  and  the  coroner,  Mr. 
Hayward. 

"  Lofthouse  and  Heyward  will  guess  why 
we  went  away,"  John  thought,  as  he  tossed 
the  cards  over  in  the  basket ;  "  they  will 
guess  that  I  have  taken  the  proper  steps  to 
make  my  marriage  legal,  and  to  make  my 
darling  (piite  my  own." 

They  were  very  silent  at  dinner,  for  the 
presence  of  the  servants  sealed  their  lips  upon 
the  topic  that  was  uppermost  in  their  minds. 
John  looked  anxiously  at  his  wife  every  now 
<#hd  then,  for  he  saw  that  her  face  had  grown 
paler  since  her  arrival  at  Mellish ;  but  he 
waited  until  they  were  alone  before  he  spoke. 

"  My  darling,"  he  said,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  the  butler  and  his  subordinate,  "  I  am 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


171 


sure  yoii  are  ill.     This  business  has  been  too 
niuc'li  for  you." 

"  Tt  is  the  air  of  this  house  that  seems  to 
oppress  me,  John,"  answered  Aurora.  "I 
liiid  forgotten  all  about  this  dreadful  business 
while  I  was  away.  Now  that  I  tome  back, 
and  find  that  the  time  whicli  lias  been  so  long 
to  me  — so  long  in  mi.sery  and  anxiety,  and  so 
long  in  joy,  my  own  dear  love,  through  you  — 
is  in  reality  only  a  few  days,  and  that  the 
murdered  man  still  lies  near  us,  I — I  sliall  be 
])etter  when — when  the  funeral  is  over,  John." 
"My  poor  darling,  I  was  a  fool  to  bring 
you  back.  I  should  never  liave  done  so  but 
for  Talbot's  advice.  lie  urged  me  sostron<:ly 
to  come  back  directly.  IK;  said  that  if  there 
should  be  any  disturbance  about  the  murder, 
we  ought  to  be  upon  the  .'^pot." 

"  Disturbance  I  What  distuibance  ?"  cried 
Aurora. 

Her  face  blanched  as  .she  spoke,  and  her 
heart  sank  witiiin  her.  What  farther  disturb- 
ance could  there  be '?  'Was  the  ghastly  busi- 
ness as  yet  unfinished  ttien  ?  She  knew— alas  I 
only  too  well — that  there  could  be  no  investi- 
gation of  this  matter  which  would  not  brin<; 
her  name  before  the  world  linked  with  tlie 
name  of  the  dead  man.  How  much  she  had 
endured  in  order  to  keep  tliat  shameful  secret 
from  the  world  !  How  much  she  had  sacri- 
ficed in  the  hope  of  saving  her  father  from 
humiliation  !  Ami  now,  at  the  last,  wht'u  she 
had  thought  that  the  dark  eliapter  of  her  life 
was  finished,  the  hateiul  page  blotted  out  — 
now,  at  the  very  last,  there  was  a  jn-obability 
of  some  new  disturbance  whiirh  would  bring 
her  name  and  her  history  into  every  newspa- 
per in  England. 

"  Oh,  John,  John!"  she  cried,  bursting  into 
a  passion  of  hysterical  sobs,  and  covering  her 
fare  with  her  clasped  hands,  "am  I  never  to 
hear  the  last  of  this?  Am  I  never,  never, 
never  to^  be  releastn]  from  the  consequences 
of  my  miserable  ibllv  ?" 

The  butler  entered  the  room  as  she  said  | 
this ;  she  rose  hurriedly,  and  walked  to  one  j 
of  the  windows,  in  order  to  conceal  her  face  j 
from  the  man.  j 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  the  old  servant 
said,  "  but  they  've  found  something  in   the  j 
Park,  and  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  like  ! 
to  know — "  j 

"  They  've  found  .something  ?  What,"  ex-  i 
claimed  John,  utterly  bewildered  between  his  j 
agitation  at  the  sight  of  his  wife's  grief  and  | 
his  endeavor  to  understand  the  man. 

"A  pistol,  sir.  One  of  the  stable  -  lads  ! 
found  it  just  now.  He  -went  to  the  wood  ' 
with  another  boy  to  look  at  the  place  where —  i 
the  —  the  man  was  shot,  and  he  's  brought  j 
back  a  pistol  he  found  there.  It  was  close  | 
against  the  water,  but  hid  away  among  the  i 
weeds  and  rushes.  W^hoever  threw  it  there,  ' 
thought,  no  doubt,  to  throw  it  in  the  pond ;  | 
but  Jim,  that  's  one  of  the  boys,  fancied  he  ! 


saw  something  glitter,  and  sure  enough  it  was 
the  band  of  a  pistol;  and  I  think  it' must  be 
the  one  that  the  trainer  was  shot  with.  Mr. 
John." 

"  A  pistol  !'■  cried  Mr.  Mellish ;  "  let  me  see 
it." 

His  servant  handed  him  the  weapon.  It 
was  small  enough  for  a  toy,  but  none  the  less 
deadly  in  a  sklltn!  hand.  It  was  a  rich  man's 
fancy,  deftly  carried  out  by  some  cunning 
gunsmith,  and  enriched  by  elaborate  inlaid 
work  of  purple  steel  and  tarnished  silver.  It 
was  rusty,  from  exposure  to  rain  and  dew  ; 
but  Mr.  Mellish  knew  the  pistol  well,  for  it 
was  his  own. 

It  was  his  own  ;  one  of  his  pet  playthings; 
and  it  had  been  kept  in  the  room  which  was 
only  entered  by  privileged  pei-sons — the  room 
in  which  his  wife  had  bu.sied  herself  upon  the 
day  of  the  murder  with  the  rearrangement  of 
his  liuns. 


[  C  II  A  P  T  E  R     XXXV. 

tlXDKIJ    A    CI.OfD.  ' 

Talbot  Bulstrode  and  his  wife  came  to  Mel- 
lish Park  a  few  days  after  the  return  of  John 
and  Aurora.  Lucy  was  pleased  to  come  to 
her  cousin — pleased  to  be  allowed  to  love  her 
witiiout  reservation — grateful  to  her  husband 
for  his  gracious  goodness  in  setting  no  barrier 
between  her  and  the  friend  she  loved. 

And  Talbot — who  shall  tell  the  thoughts 
that  were  busy  in  his  mind,  as  he  sat  in  a 
corner  of  the  first -class  carriage,  to  all  out- 
ward appearance  engrossed  in  I  he  perusal  of 
a  Times  leader  V 

I  wonder  hmv  nnuh  of  the  Thunderer's 
noble  Saxon-English  Mr.  Uulstrode  compre- 
hended .that  morning.?  The  broad  white 
pai)er  on  which  the  'J'imes  is  printed  serves  as 
a  convenient  screen  for  a  man's  face.  Heaven 
knows  what  agonies  have  been  sometimes  en- 
dured behind  that  j)rinted  mass.  A  woman, 
married,  and  a  happy  mother,  glances  care- 
lessly enough  at  the  Births,  and  Marriages, 
and  Deatlis,  and  reads,  perhaps,  that  the  man 
slie  loved,  and  j)arted  with,  and  broke  her 
heart  lor  fifteen  or  twenty  yeai-s  before,  has 
fallen  shot  through  the  heart,  t'ar  away  upon 
an  Indian  battle-field.  She  holds  the  paper 
firmly  enough  before  her  faiie,  and  her  hu.s- 
band  goes  on  with  his  breakfast,  and  stirs  his 
coffee,  or  breaks  his  (ig'r,  while  she  suiTers  her 
agony — while  the  comibrtable  breakfast-table 
darkens  and  goes  away  from  her,  and  the 
long-ago  ilay  comes  back  upon  which  the  cruel 
ship  left  Southampton,  and  the  hard  voices  of 
well-meaning  friends  held  forth  monotonously 
upon  the  tolly  of  improvident  marriages. 
Would  it  not  be  better,  by  tiie  by,  for  wives 
to  make  a  practice  of  telling  their  husbands 
all  the  sejitimental  little  stories  connected 
with  the  prematrimonial  era?     Would  it  not 


172 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


be  wiser  to  gossip  freely  about  Charles'  dark  i 
eyes  and  mustache,  and  to  hope  that  the  poor  ! 
fellow  is  <};etting  on  well  in  the  Indian  service,  } 
than  to  keep  a  skeleton,  in  the  shape  of  a  ' 
phantom  ensign  in  tlie  87th,  hidden  away  in  i 
some  dark  chamber  of  the  feminine  memory?  i 

But  other  than  womanly  agonies  are  suf- 
fered behind  the  Times.     The  husband  reads  ! 
bad  news  of  the  railway  company  in  whose  I 
shares  he  has  so  rashly  invested  that  money  \ 
which  his  wife  believes  safely  lodged  in  the  j 
jog-trot,  three-per-cent-yielding  Consols.    The  j 
dashing    son,    with    Newmarket    tendencies,  I 
reads  evil  tidings  of  tlie  hoi-se  he  has  backed  i 
so   boldly,  perhaps  at  the  advice  of  a  Man-  j 
Chester  prophet,   who  warranted  putting  his  j 
friends   in   the  way  of  winning   a   hatful  of  j 
money  for   the   small    consideration  of  three  i 
and  sixpence  in  postage  stamps.     Visions  of  I 
a  wall  that  it  will  not  be  very  easy  to  square ;  I 
of  a  black-list  of  play  or  pay  engagements;  ! 
of  a  crowd  of  angry  bookmen  clamorous  for  ' 
their   dues,  and   not   slow   to   hint  at  handy  i 
horse-ponds,  and  possible  tar  and  featheis,  for  I 
defaulting  swells  and  sneaking  welshers  —  all  \ 
these  things  flit  ac^ross  the  disorganized  brain  I 
of  the  young  man,  while  his  sisters  are  en-  j 
treating  to  be  told  whether  the  Croxim  Dm-  \ 
monds  is  to   be  performed  that  night,  and  if  I 
"dear  Miss  Pyne"  will  warble  Rode's  air  be- 
fore  the  curtain  falls.     The    friendly  screen 
hides  his  face  ;  and  by  the  time  lie  has  looked 
for  the   Covent  Garden  advertisements,  and 
given  the  re(piired  information,  he  is  able  to 
set  the  paper  down,  and  proceed  calmly  with 
his  breakfast,  pondering  ways  and   means  as 
he  does  so. 

Lucy  Bulstrode  read  a  High-Church  novel, 
while  hi^r  husband  sat  with  the  Times  before 
his  face,  thinking  of  all  tliat  had  happened  to 
him  sirwe  he  had  first  met  the  banker's  daugh- 
ter. How  far  away  that  old  love-story  seemed 
to  have  receded  since  the  quiet  domestic  hap- 
piness of  his  life  had  begun  in  his  marriage 
with  Lucy  I  He  had  never  been  false,  in  the 
remotest  shadow  of  a  thought,  to  his  second 
love ;  but,  now  that  he  knew  the  secret  of 
Aurora's  life,  he  could  but  look  back  and 
wonder  how  he  should  have  borne  that  cruel 
revelation  if  John's  fate  had  bten  his ;  if  he 
had  trusted  the  woman  he  loved  in  spite  of 
the  world,  in  spite  of  her  own  strange  words, 
which  had  so  terribly  strengthened  his  worst 
fear,  so  cruelly  redoubled  his  darkest  doubts. 

"  Poor  girl,"  he  thought ;  "it  was  scarcely 
strange  that  she  should  shrink  from  telling 
that  humiliating  story.  I  was  not  tender 
enough.  I  confronted  her  in  my  obstinate 
and  pitiless  pride.  I  thought  of  myself  rather 
than  of  her  and  of  her  sorrow.  I  was  bar- 
barous and  ungentlcmanly ;  and  then  I  won- 
dered that  she  refused  to  confide  in  me." 

Talbot  Bulstrode,  reasoning  after  the  fact, 
saw  the  weak  points  of  his  conduct  with  a 
preternatural  clearness  of  vision,  and   could 


not  repress  a  shai'p  pang  of  regret  that  he 
had  not  acted  more  generously.  There  was 
no  infidelity  to  Lucy  in  this  thought.  He 
would  not  have  exchanged  his  devoted  little 
wife  for  the  black-browed  divinity  of  the  past, 
though  an  all-powerful  fairy  had  stood  at  his 
side  ready  to  cancel  his  nuptials,  and  tie  a 
fresh  knot  between  him  and  Aurora.  But  he 
was  a  gentleman,  and  he  felt  that  he  had 
grievously  wronged,  insulted,  and  humiliated 
a  woman  whose  worst  fault  had  been  the 
trusting  folly  of  an  innocent  girl. 

"  I  left  her  on  the  ground  in  that  I'oom 
at  Felden,"  he  thought — "kneeling  on  the 
ground,  with  her  beautiful  head  bowed  down 
before  me.  O  my  God,  can  I  ever  forget  the 
agony  of  that  moment  ?  Can  I  ever  forget 
what  it  cost  me  to  do  what  I  thought  was 
right?" 

The  cold  perspiration  broke  out  ujion  his  fore- 
head as  he  remembered  that  by-gone  pain,  as 
it  may  do  with  a  cowardly  person  who  recalls 
too  vividly  the  taking  out  of  a  three-pronged 
double  tooth,  or  the  cutting  off  of  a  limb. 

"  Jolin  Mellish  was  ten  times  wiser  than  I,' 
thought  Mr.  Bulstrode ;  "  he  trusted  to  his 
instinct,  and  recognized  a  true  woman  when 
he  met  her.  I  used  to  despise  him  at  Rugby 
because  he  could  n't  construe  Cicero.  I  never 
thought  he  'd  live  to  be  wiser  than  me." 

Talbot  Bulstrode  folded  the  Times  newspa- 
per, and  laid  it  down  in  the  empty  seat  beside 
him.  Lucy  shut  the  third  volume  of  her 
novel.  How  should  she  care  to  read  when  it 
pleased  her  husband  to  desist  from  reading? 

"  Lucy,"  said  Mr.  Bulstrode,  taking  his 
wife's  hand  (they  had  the  carriage  to  them- 
selves, a  piece  of  good  fortune  which  often 
happens  to  travellers  who  give  the  guard  half 
a  01  own),  "Lucy,  I  once  did  your  cousin  a 
great  wrong;  I  want  to  atone  for  it  now.  If 
any  trouble,  which  no  one  yet  foresees,  should 
come  upon  her,  I  want  to  be  her  friend.  Do 
you  think  I  am  right  in  wishing  this,  dear?"  ■ 

"  Right,  Talbot !" 

Mrs.  Bulstrode  could  only  repeat  the  word 
in  unmitigated  surprise.  When  did  she  ever 
think  him  anything  but  the  truest,  and  wisest, 
and  most  perfect  of  created  beings  ? 

Everything  seemed  very  cpiiet  at  Mellish 
when  the  visitors  arrived.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  drawing-room,  nor  in  the  smaller  room 
within  the  drawing  room  ;  the  Venetians  were 
closed,  for  the  day  was  close  and  sultry  :  there 
were  vases  of  fresh  flowers  upon  the  tables, 
but  there  were  no  open  books,  no  litter  of 
frivolous  needle-work  or  drawing  materials, 
to  indicate  Aurora's  presence. 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mellish  expected  you  by 
the  later  train,  I  believe  sir, '  the  servant 
said,  as  he  ushered  Talbot  and  his  wife  into 
the  drawing-room. 

"Shall  I  go  and  look  for  Aurora?"  Lucy 
said  to  her  husband.  "  She  is  in  the  morn- 
ing-room, I  dare  say."  j 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


173 


Talbot  suggested  that  it  would  be  better, 
}>erhaps,  to  wait  till  Mrs.  Meliish  came  to 
them.  So  Lucy  was  fain  to  remain  where 
she  was.  She  went  to  one  of  the  open  win- 
dows, and  pushed  the  shutters  apart.  The 
blazing  sunshine  burst  into  the  room,  and 
drowned  it  in  liglit.  The  smooth  lawn  was 
aflame  with  scarlet  geraniums  and  standard 
roses,  and  all  manner  of  gaudily-colored  blos- 
soms ;  but  Mrs.  Bulstrode  looked  beyond  this 
vividly -tinted  parterre  to  the  thick  woods, 
that  loomed  darkly  purple  against  tiie  glow- 
ing^  sky. 

It  was  in  that  very  wood  that  her  husband 
had  declared  his  love  for  her;  the  same  wood 
that  iiad  since  been  outraged  by  violence  and 
murder. 

"  The  —  the  man  is  buried,  I  suppose,  Tal- 
bot ?"  slie  said  to  her  husband. 

"I  believe  so,  my  dear." 

"I  should  never  care  to  live  in  this  place 
again,  if  I  were  Aurora." 

The  door  opened  before  Mrs.  Bulstrode  had 
finished   speaking,    and    the    mistress   of  the 
house   came    toward   them.       She    welcomed 
them  affectionately  and  kindly,  taking  Lucy 
in  her  arms,  and  greeting  her  very  tenderly; 
but  Talbot  saw  that  she  had  changed  terribly  \ 
within  the  lew  days  that  had  passed  .since  her  | 
return  to  Yorkshire,  and  his  heart  sank  as  he  j 
observed  her  pale  face  and  the  dark  circles  j 
about  hci-  hollow  eyes.  I 

Could  she.  have  heard  —  Could  anybody 
have  given  her  reason  to  suppose — 

"You  are  not  well,  Mrs.  Meliish,"  he  said, 
as  he  took  her  hand. 

"  No,  not  very  well.  Tliis  oppressive  weath- 
er make^  my  head  ache." 

"1  am  sorry  to  see  you  looking  ill.  Where 
shall  I  find  John  ?"  asked  Mr.  Bulstrode. 

Aurora's  pale  face  flushed  suddenly. 

"  I — 1 — don't  know,"  she  stammered.  "  He 
is  not  in  the  house;  he  has  gone  out  —  to  the 
stables — or  to  the  farm.  I  think.  I  '11  send  for 
him.'" 

"  No,  no,"  Talbot  said,  intercepting  her 
hand  on  its  way  to  the  bell.  "I  '11  go  and 
look  for  him.  Lucy  will  be  glad  of  a  chat  with 
you,  I  dare  say,  Aurora,  and  will  not  be  sorry 
to  get  rid  of  me." 

Lu(n',  with  her  arm  about  her  cousin's 
waist,  assented  to  this  arrangement.  She  was 
grieved  to  see  the  change  in  Aurora's  looks, 
the  unnatural  constraint  of  her  manner. 

Mr.  Bulstrode  walked  away,  hugging  him- 
self upon  having  done  a  very  wi.se  thing. 

"Lucy  is  a  great  deal  more  likely  to  find 
out  what  is  the  matter  than  I  am, '  he  thought. 
"  There  is  a  sort  of  freemasonry  between 
women,  an  electric  affinity,  which  a  man's 
presence  always  destroys.  How  deathly  pah- 
Aurora  looks!  Can  it  be  possible  that  the 
I  trouble  I  expected  has  come  .so  soon  V" 

He  went  to  the  stables,  but  not  so  much  to 
look  tor  John  Meliish  as  in  the  hope  of  find- 


ing somebody  intelligent  enough  to  furnish 
him  with  a  better  account  of  the  murder  than 
any  he  had  yet  heard. 

"  Some  one  else,  as  well  as  Aurora,  must 
have  had  a  reason  for  wishing  to  get  rid  of 
this  man,"  he  thouglrt,.  "There  must  have 
been  some  motive — revenge,  gain — something 
which  no  one  has  yet  fathomed." 

He  went  into  tlie  stable-yard;  but  he  had 
no  opportunity  of  making  his  investigation,  for 
John  Meliish  was  standing  in  a  listless  atti- 
tude before  a  small  forge,  watching  the  shoe- 
ing of  one  of  his  horses.  The  young  s(juire 
looked  up  with  a  start  as  he  recognized 
Talbot,  and  gave  him  his  hand,  with  a  few 
straggling  words  of  welcome.  Even  in  that 
moment  Mr.  liulstrode  saw  that  there  was 
perhaps  a  greater  change  in  John's  appear- 
ance than  in  that  of  Aurora.  The  Vork^hire- 
man's  blue  eyes  had  lost  their  brightness,  his 
step  its  elasticity;  his  face  seemeil  sunken  and 
haggard,  and  he  evidently  avoided  meeting 
Talbot's  eye.  He  lounged  listlessly  away 
from  the  forge,  walking  at  his  guest's  side,  in 
the  direction  of  the  .stable-gates;  but  he  had 
the  air  of  a  man  who  neither  knows  nor  cares 
whither  he  is  goin<i. 

"  Shall  we  go  to  the  house  ?"  he  said.  '•  You 
must  want  some  luncheon  after  your  jour- 
ney." He  looked  at  his  watch  as  he  said  this. 
It  was  half-past  three,  an  hour  after  the  usual 
time  for  lunyheon  at  Meliish. 

"I  've  been  in  the  stables  all  the  morning," 
he  said.  "  We  're  busy  making  our  prepara- 
tions lor  the  York  Sunmier." 

"What  horses  do  you  run"/"  Mr.  Bulstrode 
asked,  politely  aflecting  to  be  interested  in  a 
subject  that  was  utterly  indiffeient  to  him,  in 
the  hope  that  stable  -  talk  niight  rouse  John 
from  his  listless  apathy. 

"What  horses'/"  repeated  Mr.  Meliish, 
vaguely.  "I  —  1  hardly  know.  Langley 
manages  all  that  for  me,  you  know;  and — I 
— I  forget  the  names  of  the  horses  he  proposed, 
and — " 

Talbot  Bulstrode  turned  suddenly  upon  his 
friend,  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  They 
had  left  the  stables  by  this  time,  and  were  in  a 
shady  pathway  that  led  through  a  shrubbery 
toward  the  house. 

"John  I^Icllish,"  he  f«aid,  "this  is  not  fair 
toward  an  oM  friend.  You  have  something 
on  your  mind,  and  you  are  trying  to  hide  it 
from  me." 

The  .squire  turned  away  bis  head. 

'•I  have  something  on  my  mind.  Talbot," 
he  said,  quietly.  "If  you  could  help  me,  I  'd 
ask  your  help  more  than  any  man's.  But  you 
can't,  you  can't!" 

"But  suppose  I  think  I  can  help  youV" 
cried  Mr.  Bulstrode.  "  Sujjpo-se  I  mean  to 
try  and  do  .so,  whether  you  will  or  noV  I 
think  1  can  gue.ss  what  your  trouble  is,  John, 
but  I  thought  you  were  a  braver  man  than  to 
give  way  under  it;    I  thought  you   were  just 


174 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


the  sort  of  man  to  struggle  through  it  nobly 
and  bravely,  and  to  get  the  better  of  it  by 
your  own  strength  of  will." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  exclaimed  John 
Mellish.  "  You  can  guess  —  you  know  —  you 
thought!  Have  you  no  mercy  upon  me,  Tal- 
bot Bulstrode  ?  Can't  you  see  that  I  'ni  al- 
most mad,  and  tliat  this  is  no  time  for  you  to 
force  your  sympatliy  upon  me?  Do  you  want 
me  to  betra)'  myself?  Do  you  want  me  to 
betray — ' 

He  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  the  words  liad 
choked  him,  and,  passionately  stamping  Ids 
foot  upon  the  ground,  walked  on  hurriedly, 
with  his  friend  still  by  his  side. 

Tlie  dining-room  looked  dreary  enough 
when  the  two  men  entered  it,  althougli  the 
table  gave  promise  of  a  very  substantial  lunch- 
eon ;  but  there  was  no  one  to  welcome  them, 
or  to  officiate  at  the  banquet. 

John  seated  himself  wearily  in  a  chair  at 
the  bottom  of  the  table. 

"  You  liad  better  go  and  see  if  Mrs.  Bul- 
strode and  your  mi.stress  are  (.'oming  to  lunch- 
eon," he  said  to  a  servant,  wdio  left  the  room 
with  his  master's  message,  and  returned  three 
minutes  afterward  to  sa}'  that  the  ladies  were 
not  coming. 

The  ladii's  were  seated  side  bj-  side  upon  a 
low  sofa  in  Am'ora's  morning-room.  Mrs.  Mel- 
lish sat  witii  her  head  upon  lier  cousin's  shoul- 
der. She  had  never  had  a  sist<y,  remember, 
and  gentle  Lucy  stood  in  place  of  tliat  near 
and  tender  comforter.  Talbot  was  perfectly 
right;  Lucy  liad  accomplished  tluit  which  lie 
would  have  failed  to  bring  about.  She  ha<l 
found  the  key  to  lier  cousin's  unliappiness. 

"  Ceased  to  love  you,  dear!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Bulstrode,  echoing  the  words  that  Aurora  had 
last  spokten.     "  Impossible  !" 

"  It  is  true,  Lucy,"  Mrs.  Mellish  answered, 
despairingly.  "  He  has  ceased  to  love  me. 
Tliere  is  a  black  cloud  between  us  now,  now 
that  all  secrets  are  done  away  with.  It  is 
very  bitter  for  me  to  bear,  Lucy,  for  I  thought 
we  should  be  so  happy  and  united.  But  — 
but  it  is  only  natural.  He  feels  ilie  degrada- 
tion so  much.  How  can  he  look  at  me  with- 
out remembering  who  and  what  I  am?  The 
widow  of  his  groom!  Can  I  wonder  that  he 
avoids  me  ?" 

"Avoids  you,  dear!" 

"  Yes,  avoids  me.  We  have  scarcely  spoken 
a  dozen  words  to  each  other  since  the  night 
of  our  return.  He  was  so  good  to  me,  so  ten- 
der and  devoted  during  the  journe)'  home, 
telling  me  again  and  again  that  this  discovery 
bad  not  lessened  his  love,  that  all  the  trial  and 
liorror  of  tiie  past  few  da}S  had  only  shown 
him  th(i  great  strength  of  iiis  affection ;  but  on 
the  night  of  our  return,  Lucy,  he  changed  — 
changed  suddenly  and  inexplicably;  and  now 
1  feel  that  there  is  a  gulf  between  us  that  can 
never  be  passed  again.  He  is  alienated  from 
me  for  ever." 


"Aurora,  all  this  is  impossible,"  remonstrat- 
ed Lucy.  "  It  is  your  ow)i  morbid  fancy, 
darling." 

"My  fancy!"  cried  Aurora,  bitterly.  "Ah! 
Lucy,  you  can  not  know  how  much  I  love  niv 
husband,  if  you  think  that  I  could  be  deceived 
in  one  look  or  tone  of  his.  Is  it  my  fancy  that 
he  averts  his  eyes  when  he  speaks  to  me  ?  Is 
it  my  fancy  that  his  voice  changes  when  he 
pronounces  my  name  ?  Is  it  my  fancy  that 
he  roams  about  the  house  like  a  gliost,  and 
paces  u])  and  down  his  room  half  the  night 
through  ?  If  these  things  are  my  fancy,  Heav- 
en have  mercy  upon  me,  Lucy,  for  I  must  be 
going  mad." 

Mrs.  Bulstrode  started  as  she  looked  at  her 
cousin.  Could  it  be  possible  that  all  the 
trouble  and  confusion  of  the  past  week  or 
two  had  indeed  unsettled  this  poor  girl's  in- 
tellect ? 

"My  poor  Aurora,"  she  murmured,  smooth- 
ing the  heavy  hair  away  from  her  cousin's 
tearful  eyes,  "  my  poor  darling,  how  is  it  pos- 
sible that  John  should  change  toward  you  ? 
He  loved  you  so  dearly,  so  devotedly;  surely 
nothing  could  alienate  him  from  you." 

"  I  used  to  think  so,  Lucy,"  Aurora  mur- 
mured in  a  low,  heart-broken  voice;  "I  used 
to  think  nothing  could  ever  come  to  part  us. 
He  said  he  would  ibilow  me  to  the  uttermost 
end  of  the  world ;  he  said  that  no  obstacle  on 
earth  should  ever  separate  us:  and  now — "' 

She  could  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  ,she 
broke  into  convulsive  sobs,  and  hid  her  face 
upon  her  cousin's  shoulder,  staining  Mrs.  Bul- 
strode's  pretty  .silk  dress  with  her  hot  teara. 

"  Oh,  my  love,  my  love,"  she  cried,  piteous- 
ly,  "why  did  n't  I  run  away  and  hide  myself 
from  30U  ?  why  did  n't  I  trust  to  my  first  in- 
stinct, and  run  away  from  you  for  ever?  Any 
suflering  M'ould  be  better  than  this  —  any  suf- 
fering would  be  better  than  this!' 

Her  ]mssioiiate  jrrief  merged  into  a  fit  of 
hysterical  weeping,  in  which  she  was  no  longer 
mistress  of  herself.  She  had  suffered  for  the 
past  few  days  more  bitterly  than  she  had  ever 
suffered  yet.  Lucy  understood  all  that.  She 
was  one  of  those  people  whose  tenderness  in- 
stinctively comprehends  the  grief!:!  of  others. 
She  knew  how  to  treat  her  cousin ;  and  in  less 
than  an  hour  after  this  emotional  outbreak 
Aurora  was  lying  on  her  bed,  pale  and  ex- 
hausted, but  sleeping  peacefully.  She  had 
carried  the  burden  of  her  sorrow  in  silence 
during  the  past  few  days,  and  had  spent  sleep- 
less nights  in  brooding  over  her  trouble.  Her 
conversation  with  Lucy  had  unconsciously  re- 
lieved her,  and  she  slumbered  calmly  after 
the  storm.  Lucy  sat  by  the  bed  watching  the 
sleeper  for  some  time,  and  then  stole  on  tip- 
toe from  the  room. 

She  went,  of  course,  to  tell  her  husband  all 
that  had  passed,  and  to  take  counsel  from  his 
sublime  wisdom. 

She   found    Talbot  in  the   drawing-room 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


175 


alone ;  he  had  eaten  a  dreary  luncheon  in 
John's  oonipany,  and  had  been  hastily  left  by 
his  host  immediately  after  the  meal.  There 
had  been  no  sound  of  carriage-wheels  upon 
the  gravelled  drive  all  that  morning;  there 
had  been  no  callcM-s  at  Mellish  since  John'.s  re- 
turn ;  for  a  horrible  scandal  had  spread  itself 
throughout  *the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
county,  and  those  who  spoke  of  the  young 
squire  and  his  wife  talked  in  solemn  under- 
tones, and  gravely  demanded  of  each  other 
whether  some  serious  step  should  not  be  taken 
about  the  business  which  was  uppermost  in 
everybody's  mind. 

Lucy  told  Talbot  all  that  Aurora  had  said 
to  her.  This  was  no  breach  of  confidence  in 
the  young  wife's  code  of  morality ;  for  were 
not  she  and  her  husband  immutably  one,  and 
how  could  she  have  any  secret  from  him  ? 

"I  thought  so!''  Mr.  IJuIstrode  said,  when 
Lucy  had  finished  her  story. 

*'  You  thought  what,  dear?" 

"  That  the  breach  between  John  and  Au- 
rora Avas  a  serious  one.  Don't  look  so  sorrow- 
ful, my  darling.  It  must  be  our  busines.?  to 
reunite  these  divided  lovers.  You  shall  com- 
fort Aurora,  Lucy,  and  I  '11  look  after  John." 

Talbot  Bulstrode  kissed  his  little  wife,  and 
went  straight  away  upon  his  friendly  errand. 
He  found  John  Mellish  in  his  own  room — the 
room  in  which  Aurora  had  written  to  liim 
upon  the  day  of  her  flight  —  the  room  from 
which  tlie  murderous  weapon  had  been  stolen 
by  some  unknown  hand.  John  had  hidden 
the  rusty  pistol  in  one  of  the  locked  drawers 
of  his  Davenport ;  but  it  was  not  to  be  sup- 
posed that  the  fact  of  its  discovery  could  be 
locked  up  or  hidden  away.  That  had  been 
fully  discussed  in  the  servants'  hall;  and  who 
shall  doubt  that  it  had  travelled  farther,  per- 
colating through  some  of  those  sinuous  chan- 
nels which  lead  away  from  every  household  ? 

"I  want  you  to  come  for  a  walk  with  me, 
Mr.  John  Mellish,"  said  Talbot,  imperatively; 
"  so  put  on  yoin-  hat,  and  come  into  the  Park. 
You  arc  the  most  agreeable  gentleman  I  ever 
liad  the  honor  to  visit,  and  the  attention  you 
pav  your  guests  is  reallv  something  remark- 
abie." 

Mr.  jMellish  made  no  reply  to  this  speech. 
He  stood  before  his  friend  pale,  silent,  and 
sullen.  He  was  no  more  like  the  hearty  York- 
shire squire  whom  we  have  known  than  lie 
was  like  Viscount  Palmerston  or  Lord  Clyde. 
He  was  transformed  out  of  himself  by  some 
great  trouble  that  was  preying  ui)on  his  mind, 
and,  being  of  a  transparent  and  cliildislily 
truthful  disposition,  was  unable  to  disguise  his 
anguish. 

"John,  John,"  cried  Talbot,  "  we  were  little 
boys  together  at  Rugby,  and  have  backed 
eacii  other  in  a  dozen  childish  fights.  Is  it 
kind  of  you  to  withhold  your  friendsliip  from 
me  now,  when  I  havt;  come  here  on  purpose  to 
be  a  friend  to  you  —  to  you  and  to  Aurora  ?" 


John  Mellish  turned  away  his  head  as  his 
friend  mentione<l  that  fiimiliar  name,  and  the 
gesture  was  not  lost  upon  Mr   Bulstrode. 

"  John,  whj-  do  you  refuse  to  trust  me  '?" 

"  I  don't  refuse.  I  —  why  did  you  come  to 
this  accursed  house  ?"  cried  John  Mellish, 
passionately  ;  "  why  did  you  come  here,  Tal- 
bot Bulstrode  ?  You  don't  know  the  blight 
that  is  upon  this  place,  and  those  who  live  in 
it,  or  you  would  have  no  more  come  here  than 
you  would  willingly  go  to  a  plague-stricken 
city.  Do  you  know  that  since  I  came  back 
from  London  not  a  creature  has  called  at  this 
house  V  Do  3'ou  know  that  when  I  an  I — anci 
—  my  wife  —  went  to  church  on  Sunday,  the 
people  we  knew  sneaked  away  from  om-  path 
as  if  we  had  just  recovered  from  typhus  fever"? 
Do  you  know  that  the  cursed  gaping  rabble 
come  from  Doncaster  to  stare  over  the  Park 
palings,  and  that  this  house  is  a  show  to  half 
the  West  Riding?  Why  do  you  come  here  ? 
Yon  will  be  stared  at,  and  grinned  at,  and 
scandalized — you,  wiio —  Go  back  to  Lon- 
don to-night,  Talbot,  if  yon  don't  want  to 
drive  me  mad." 

"  Not  till  you  trust  me  witli  your  troubles, 
John,"  answered  Mr.  Bulstrode,  firmly.  "  Put 
on  your  hat,  and  come  out  with  me.  I  want 
-you  to  show  me  the  spot  where  the  murdtr 
was  done.'" 

"  You  may  get  some  one  else  to  show  it 
you,"  muttered  Jolm,  sullenly;  "  I  '11  not  go 
there  !" 

"John  Mellish,"  cried  Talbot,  suddenly, 
"  am  I  to  think  you  a  coward  and  a  fool":'  By 
the  Heaven  that  's  above  mc,  I  shall  think  .so 
if  you  persist  in  this  nonsense.  Come  out 
into  the  Park  with  nie ;  I  have  the  claim  of 
past  tViendship  upon  you.  and  I  '11  not  have 
that  claim  set  aside  by  any  folly  of  your.s." 

The  two  men  went  out  upon  the  lawn,  John 
complying  moodily  enough  with  his  friend's 
request,  and  walked  silently  across  the  Park 
toward  that  portion  of  the  wood  in  which 
James  Conyers  had  met  his  death.  They  had 
readied  one  of"  the  loneliest  and  shadiest  ave- 
nues in  this  wood,  and  were,  in  fact,  close 
against  the  spot  from  which  Saimiel  Prodder 
had  watched  his  niece  and  liei-  companion  on 
the  night  of  the  murder,  when  Talbot  stopped 
suddenly,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  squire's 
shoulder. 

"John,"  he  said,  in  a  determined  tone, 
"  before  we  go  to  look  at  the  place  where 
this  bad  man  died,  jou  must  tell  mo  your 
trouble." 

Mr.  Mellish  drew  himself  up  pi-oudly,  and 
looked  at  the  speaker  with  gloomy  defiance 
lowering  upon  his  face. 

"  I  will  tell  no  man  that  which  I  do  not 
choose  to  tell,"  he  .said,  firmly  ;  and  then,  with 
a  sudden  change  that  was  terrible  to  see,  he 
crieil  iinpetiiou.-ly,  "  Why  do  you  torment  mc, 
Talbot "/  I  tell  you  that  I  can't  trust  you  —  I 
can't  trust  any  one  upon  earth.     If —  if  I  told 


17G 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


you — the  horrible  tliought  that  —  if  I  told 
you,  it  would  be  your  duty  to  —  I  —  Talbot, 
Talbot,  have  pity  upon  me  —  let  me  alone  — 
go  away  from  me  —  I  — " 

Stamping  furiously,  as  if  he  would  have 
trampled  down  the  cowardly  despair  for 
which  he  despised  himself,  and  beating  his 
forehead  with  his  clenched  fists,  John  Mellish 
turned  away  from  his  friend,  and,  leaning 
against  tlie  gnarled  branch  of  a  great  oak, 
wept  aloud.  Talbot  Bulstrode  waited  till 
the  paroxysm  had  passed  away  before  he 
spoke  again  ;  but  when  his  friend  had  grown 
calmer,  he  linked  Iiis  arm  about  him,  and 
drew  him  away  almost  as  tenderly  as  if  the 
big  Yorkshircman  had  been  some  sorrowing 
woman,  sorely  in  need  of  manly  help  and 
comfort. 

"John,  John,"  he  said  gravely,  "thank 
God  for  this ;  thank  God  for  anything  that 
breaks  the  ice  between  us.  I  know  what 
your  trouble  is,  poor  old  friend,  and  I  know 
that  you  have  no  cause  for  it.  Hold  up  your 
head,  man,  and  look  forward  to  a  happy  fu- 
ture. I  know  the  black  thought  that  .has 
been  gnawing  at  your  poor,  foolish,  manly, 
heart:  you  think  that  Aurora  murdered  the 
grvom  !" 

John  Mellish  started,  shuddering  convul- 
sively. 

"  No,  no,''  he  gasped  ;  "  who  said  so  —  who 
said  —  " 

"  You  think  this,  John,"  continued  Talbot 
Bulstrode,  "  and  you  do  her  the  most  grievous 
wrong  that  ever  yet  was  done  to  woman  —  a 
more  shameful  wrong  than  I  committed  when 
I  thought  that  Aurora  Floyd  had  been  guilty 
of  some  base  intrigue." 

"  You  don't  know  —  "  stammered  John. 

"  J  don't  know  !  I  know  all,  and  foresaw 
trouble  for  you  before  j/i.w  saw  the  cloud  that 
was  in  the  sky.  But  I  never  dreamed  of  this. 
I  thought  the  foolish  country-people  would 
suspect  your  wife,  as  it  always  pleases  people 
to  try  and  fix  a  crime  upon  the  person  in 
whom  that  crime  would  be  more  particularly 
atrocious.  I  was  prepared  for  this ;  but  to 
think  that  you  —  you,  John,  who  should  have 
learned  to  know  your  wife  by  this  time  —  to 
think  that  you  should  suspect  the  woman  you 
have  loved  of  a  foul  and  treacherous  mur- 
der!" 

"  IIow  do  we  know  that  the — that  the  man 
was  murdered  V"  cried  John,  vehemently. 
"  Who  says  that  the  deed  was  treacherously 
done  ?  He  may  have  goaded  her  beyond  en- 
durance, insulted  her  generous  pride,  stung 
her  to  tlie  very  quick,  and  in  the  madness  of 
her  passion  —  having  that  wretched  pistol  in 
her  possession  —  she  may  —  " 

"  Stop  I'  interrupted  Talbot.  "  What  pis- 
tol ?  You  told  me  the  weapon  had  not  been 
found." 

"  It  was  found  upon  the  night  of  our  re- 
turn." 


"  Y'^es ;  but  why  do  you  associate  this  weap- 
on with  Aurora  ?  What  do  you  mean  by 
saying  that  the  pistol  was  in  her  possession  ?" 

"  Because  —  O  my  God  !  Talbot,  why  do 
you  wring  these  things  from  me  ?" 

"  For  your  own  good,  and  for  the  justifica- 
tion of  an  innocent  woman,  so  help  me  Heav- 
en !"  answered  Mr.  Bulstrode.  *'  Do  not  be 
afraid  to  be  candid  with  me,  John.  Nothing 
would  ever  make  me  believe  Aurora  Mellish 
guilty  of  this  crime." 

The  Yorkshircman  turned  suddenly  toward 
his  friend,  and,  leaning  upon  Talbot  Bul- 
strode's  shoulder,  wept  for  the  second  time 
during  that  woodland  ramble. 

"  May  God  in  heaven  bless  you  for  this, 
Talbot !"  he  cried,  passionately.  "  Ah  !  my 
love,  my  dear,  what  a  wretch  1  have  been  to 
you  !  but  Heaven  is  my  witness  that,  even  in 
my  worst  agony  of  doubt  and  horror,  my  love 
has  never  lessened.  It  never  could,  it  never 
could !" 

"  John,  old  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Bulstrode, 
cheerfully,  "  perhaps,  instead  of  talking  this 
nonsense  (which  leaves  me  entirely  in  the 
dark  as  to  everything  that  has  happened  since 
you  left  London),  you  will  do  me  the  favor  to 
enlighten  me  as  to  the  cause  of  these  foolish 
suspicions." 

They  had  reached  the  ruined  summer- 
house,  and  the  pool  of  stagnant  water  on  the 
margin  of  which  James  Conyers  had  met  with 
his  death.  Mr.  Bulstrode  seated  himself  upon 
a  pile  of  broken  timber,  while  John  Mellish 
paced  up  and  down  the  smooth  patch  of  turf 
between  the  summer-house  and  the  water,  and 
told,  disjointedly  enough,  the  story  of  the  find- 
ing of  the  pistol  which  had  been  taken  out  of  j 
his  room.  < 

"  I  saw  that  pistol  upon  the  day  of  the  mur- 
der," said  he.  "  I  took  particular  notice  of 
it ;  for  I  was  cleaning  my  guns  that  morn- 
ing, and  I  left  them  all  in  confusion  while  I 
went  down  to  the  lodge  to  see  the  trainer. 
When  I  came  back  —  I  —  " 

"  Well,  what  then  V"  r 

"  Aurora  had  been  setting  my  guns  }» 
order." 

"  You  argue,  therefore,  that  your  wife  tooj: 
the  pistol  V" 

John  looked  piteously  at  his  friend ;  b^t 
Talbot's  grave  smile  reassured  him. 

"  No  one  else  had  pennission  to  go  into  the 
room, '  he  answered.  "I  keep  my  papers  and 
accounts  there,  you  know,  and  it  's  an  under- 
stood thing  that  none  of  the  servants  are 
allowed  to  go  there  except  when  they  clean 
the  room." 

"  To  be  sure  !  But  the  room  is  not  locked*! 
I  suppose  ?"  I 

"  Locked !  of  course  not."  ' 

"  And  the  windows,  which  open  to  the 
ground,  are  .sometimes  left  open,  I  dare  say?" 

"  Almost  always,  in  such  weather  as  this." 

"  Then,  my  dear  John,  it  may  be  just  posei- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


177 


ble  that  some  one  who  had  not  permission  to 
enter  the  room  did  nevertheless  enter  it  for 
the  purpose  of  abstracting  this  pistol.  Have 
you  asked  Aurora  why  she  took  upon  herself 
to  rearrange  your  guns  ?  She  had  never  <Jone 
»uch  a  thing  before,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  very  often.  I  'm  rather  in  the 
habit  of  leaving  them  about  after  cleaning 
them,  and  my  darling  understands  all  about 
them  as  well  as  I  do.  She  has  often  put  them 
away  lor  me." 

"  Then  there  was  nothing  particular  in  her 
doing  so  upon  the  day  of  the  murder.  Have 
you  asked  her  how  long  she  was  in  your  room, 
and  whether  she  can  remember  seeing  this 
particular  pistol  among  others  V" 

"  Ask  her!"  exclaimed  John ;  "  how  could  I 
ask  her  when  —  " 

"  When  you  had  been  mad  enough  to  sus- 
pect her.  i^o,  my  poor  old  friend,  you  made 
the  same  mistake  that  I  committed  at  Felden. 
You  presupposed  the  guilt  of  the  woman  you 
loved,  and  you  were  too  great  a  coward  to 
investigate  the  evidence  upon  which  your  sus- 
picions were  built.  Had  1  been  wise  enough, 
instead  of  blindl^y  ({uestioning  this  poor,  be- 
wildered girl,  to  tell  her  plainly  what  it  was 
that  1  suspected,  the  incontrovertible  truth 
would  have  flashed  out  of  her  angry  eyes, 
and  one  indignant  denial  would  have  told  me 
how  basely  I  had  wronged  her.  You  shall 
not  make  the  mistake  that  I  made,  John. 
You  must  go  frankly  and  fearlessly  to  the  wife 
you  love,  tell  her  of  the  suspicion  that  over- 
clouds her  fame,  and  implore  her  to  help  you 
to  the  uttermost  of  her  power  in  unravelling 
the  mystery  of  this  man's  death.  'J'he  a.ssas- 
sin  7ntu>t  be  found,  John  ;  for,  so  long  as  he 
remains  undiscovered,  you  and  your  wife  will 
be  the  victims  of  every  penny-a-liner  who 
finds  himself  at  a  loss  lor  a  paragraph." 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Melhsh  answered  bitterly,  "the 
papers  have  been  hard  at  it  already;  and 
there  's  been  a  fellow  hanging  about  the  place 
for  the  last  few  days  whom  1  've  had  a  very 
strong  inclination  to  thrash.  Some  reporter, 
I  suppose,  come  to  pick  up  information." 

"  1  suppose  so,"  Talbot  answered,  thought- 
fully ;  "  what  sort  of  a  man  was  he  V" 

"A  decent- looking  fellow  enough;  but  a 
Londoner,  1  fancy,  and  —  stay!"  exclaimed 
John,  suddenly,  "  there  's  a  man  coming 
toward  us  from  the  turnstile,  and,  unless  1  'm 
considerably  mistaken,  it  's  the  very  fellow." 

Mr.  Mellish  was  right. 

The  wood  was  free  to  any  foot-passenger 
who  pleased  to  avail  himself  of  the  pleasant 
shelter  of  spreading  beeches,  and  the  smooth 
carpet  of  mossy  turf,  rather  than  tramp 
wearily  upon  the  dusty  highway. 

The  stranger  advancing  from  the  turnstile 
was  a  decent-looking  person,  dressed  in  dark, 
tight-fitting  clothes,  and  making  no  unneces- 
sary or  ostentatious  display  (A'  linen,  for  his 
coat  was  buttoned  tightly  to  the  chin.  He 
12 


looked  at  Talbot  and  John  as  he  passed  them, 
not  insolently,  or  even  inquisitiveh',  but  with 
one  brightly  rapid  and  searching  glance,  which 
seemed  to  take  in  the  most  minute  details  in 
the  appearance  of  both  gentlemen.  Then, 
walking  on  a  few  paces,  he  stopped,  and  look- 
ed thoughtfully  at  the  pond,  and  the  bank 
above  it. 

"  This  is  the  place,  I  think,  gentlemen  ?"  he 
said,  in  a  frank  and  rather  free-and-easy  man- 
ner. 

Talbot  returned  his  look  with  interest. 

"  If  you  mean  the  place  where  the  murder 
was  committed,  it  is,"  he  said. 

"Ah  !  I  understood  so,"  answered  the  stran- 
ger, by  no  means  abashed. 

He  looked  at  the  bank,  regarding  it,  now 
froni  one  point,  now  from  another,  like  some 
skilful  upholsterer  taking  the  measure  of  a 
piece  of  furniture.  Tlien,  walking  slowly 
round  the  pond,  he  seemed  to  plumb  the  depth 
of  the  stagnant  water  with  his  small  gray 
eyes. 

Talbot  Bulstrode  watched  the  man  as  he 
took  this  mental  photograph  of  the  place. 
Tliere  was  a  business-like  composure  in  his 
manner  which  was  entirely  diilcrent  to  the 
eager  curiosity  of  a  scandal-monger  and  a 
busybody. 

Mr.  Bulstrode  rose  as  the  man  walked  away, 
and  went  slowly  after  him. 

"  Stop  where  you  are,  John,"  he  said,  aa  he 
left  his  companion  ;  ^'  I  '11  find  out  who  thia 
fellow  is." 

He  walked  on,  and  overtook  tlie  stranger 
at  about  a  hundred  yards  from  the  ponH. 

"  I  want  to  have  a  few  words  with  you  be- 
fore you  leave  the  Park,  my  friend,"  he  said, 
quietly  ;  "  unless  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  you 
are  a  member  of  the  detective  police,  and 
come  here  with  credentials  from  Scotland 
Yard." 

The  man  shook  his  head  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"  I  'm  not  obliged  to  tell  everybody  my 
business,"  he  answered,  coolly  ;  "  this  footpath 
is  a  public  thoroughfare,  I  believe?" 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Mr. 
Bulstrode.  "It  may  serve  your  purpose  to 
beat  about  the  bush,  but  I  have  no  reason  to 
do  so,  and  therefore  may  as  well  conu;  to  the 
point  at  once.  If  you  are  sent  here  for  the 
fiurpose  of  discovering  the  murderer  of  James 
Conyers.  you  can  bo  more  welcome  to  no  one 
than  to  the  master  of  that  house." 

He  pointed  to  the  Gothic  chimneys  as  he 
spoke. 

"  If  those  who  employ  you  have  promised 
you  a  liberal  reward,  Mr.  Mellish  will  willing- 
ly treble  the  amount  they  may  have  offered 
you.  He  would  not  give  you  cause  to  complain 
of  his  liberality  should  you  succeed  in  accom- 
plishing the  purpose  of  your  errand.  If  you 
think  you  will  gain  anything  by  underhand 
measures,  and  by  keeping  yourself  <lark,  you 
are  very  much  mistaken  ;  for  no  one  can  be 


178 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


better  able  or  more  willing  to  give  you  assist- 
ance in  this  than  Mr.  and  Mva.  Meliish." 

The  detective — for  he  had  tacitly  admitted 
the  fact  of  his  profession  —  looked  doubtfully 
at  Talbot  Bulstrode. 

"  You  're  a  lawyer,  I  suppose  ?"  he  said. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Talbot  Bulstrode,  member  for 
Penruthy,  and  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Mcllish's 
first  cousin." 

The  detective  bowed. 

"  My  name  is  Joseph  Grimstone,  of  Scot- 
land Yard  and  Ball's  Pond,"  he  said ;  "  and  I 
certainly  see  no  objection  to  our  working  to- 
gether. If  Mr.  Meliish  is  prepared  to  act  on 
the  square,  I  'm  prepared  to  act  with  him, 
and  to  accept  any  reward  his  generosity  may 
offer.  But  if  he  or  any  friend  of  his  wants 
to  hoodwink  Joseph  Grimstone,  he  'd  better 
think  twice  about  the  game  before  he  tries  it 
on — that  's  all." 

Mr.  Bulstrode  took  no  notice  of  this  thi*eat, 
but  looked  at  his  watch  before  replying  to  the 
detective. 

"  It  's  a  quarter-past  six,"  he  said.  ''  Mr. 
Meliish  (lines  at  seven.  Can  you  call  at  the 
house,  say  at  nine,  this  evening '?  You  shall 
then  have  all  the  assistance  it  is  in  our  power 
to  give  you." 

"  Certainly,  sir.     At  nine  this  evening." 

"  We  shall  be  prepared  to  receive  you. 
Good-af tor  n  oon . " 

Mr.  Grimstone  touched  his  hat.  and  strolled 
quietly  away  under  the  shadow  of  the  beeches, 
Avhile  Talbot  Bulstrode  walked  back  to  rejoin 
his  friend. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  take  this  opportunity 
of  stating  tlie  reason  of  the  detective's  early 
appearance  at  Meliish  Park.  Upon  the  day 
of  the  inquest,  and  consequently  the  next  day 
but  one  after  the  murder,  two  anonymous 
letters,  worded  in  the  same  manner,  and  writ- 
ten by  the  same  hand,  w(>re  received  respec- 
tively by  the  head  of  the  Doncaster  constab- 
ulary and  by  the  chief  of  the  Scotland- Yard 
detective  confederacy. 

These  anonymous  communications — written 
in  a  hand  whii.'h,  in  spite  of  all  attempt  at  dis- 
guise, still  retained  the  spidery  peculiarities  of 
feminine  calligraphy — pointed,  by  a  sinuous 
and  inductive  process  of  reasoning,  at  Aurora 
Meliish  as  the  murderess  of  James  Couyers. 
I  need  scarcely  say  that  the  writer  was  no 
other  than  Mrs.  Powell.  She  has  disappeared 
for  ever  from  my  story,  and  I  have  no  wish  to 
blacken  a  character  which  can  ill  afford  to  be 
slandered.  The  ensign's  widow  actually  be- 
lieved in  the  guilt  of  her  beautiful  patroness. 
It  is  so  easy  for  an  envious  woman  to  believe 
horrible  things  of  the  more  prosperous  sister 
■whom  she  hates. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


"  We  are   on   the    verge  of  a   precipice," 
Tajbot  Bulstrode  thought,  as  he  prepared  for 
dinner  in   the  comfortable  dressing-room  al- 
lotted  to  him  at  Meliish  — - "  we   are  on  the 
verge  of  a  precipice,  and  nothing  but  a  bold 
grapple  with   the   worst  can  save  us.     Any 
reticence,  any  attempt  at  keeping  back  sus- 
-]  picious  facts,  or  hushing  up  awkward  coinci- 
I  deuces,  would  be  fatal  to  us.     If  John  had 
j  made   away  with  this  pistol  with   which  the 
I  deed  was  done,  he  would  have  inevitably  fixed 
j  a  most  fearful  suspicion  upon  his  wife.    Thank 
God   I   came   here   to  day !     We   must   look 
matters  straight  in  the  face,  and  our  first  step 
must  be  to  secure  Aurora's  help.     So  long  as 
she  is  silent  as  to  her  share  in  the  events  of 
that  day  and  night,  there  is  a  link  missing  in 
the  chain,  and  we  are  all  at  sea.     John  must 
speak  to  her  to-night ;  or  perhaps  it  will  be 
better  for  me  to  speak." 

Mr.  Bulstrode  went  down  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  he  found  his  friend  pacing  up 
and  down,  solitary  and  wretched. 

"  The  ladies  are  going  to  dine  up  stairs," 
said  Mr.  Meliish,  as  Talbot  joined  him.  "  I 
have  just  had  a  message  to  say '.so.  Why 
does  she  avoid  me,  Talbot?  Why  does  my 
wife  avoid  me  like  this  ?  We  have  scarcely 
spoken  to  each  other  for  days." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  why,  you  foolish  John  ?" 
answered  Mr.  Bulstrode.  "  Your  wife  avoids 
you  because  you  have  chosen  to  alienate  your- 
self from  her,  and  because  she  thinks,  poor 
girl,  that  she  has  lost  your  affection.  She 
fancies  tiiat  the  discovery  of  her  first  mar- 
riage has  caused  a  revulsion  of  feeling,  and 
that  you  no  longer  love  her." 

"No  longer  love  her!"  cried  John.  "O 
my  God !  she  ouglit  to  know  that,  if  I  could 
give  my  life  for  her  fifty  times  over,  I  would 
do  it,  to  save  her  one  pang.  I  vvould  do  it.  so 
help  me  Heaven,  though  she  was  the  guiltiest 
wretch  that  had  ever  crawled  the  earth!" 

"  But  no  one  asks  you  to  do  anything  of 
the  kind,"  said  Mr.  Bulstrode.  "  You  are 
only  requested  to  be  reasonable  and  patient, 
to  put  a  proper  trust  in  Providence,  and  to 
be  guided  by  people  who  are  rather  less  im- 
petuous than  your  ungovernable  self." 

"  I  will  do  what  you  like,  Talbot ;  I  will  do 
what  you  like." 

Mr.  Meliish  pressed  his  friend's  hand.  Had 
he  ever  thought,  when  he  had  seen  Talbot  an 
accepted  lover  at  Felden,  and  had  hated  him 
with  a  savage  and  wild  Indian-like  fury,  that 
he  would  come  to  be  thus  humbly  grateful  to 
him  —  thus  pitifully  dependent  upon  his  supe- 
I  rior  wisdom  ?  He  wrung  the  young  politi- 
I  cian's  hand,  and  promised  to  be  as  submissive 
as  a  child  beneath  his  guidance. 
!  In  compliance,  therefore,  with  Talbot's  com- 
1  mand,  he  ate  a  few  morsels  of  fish,  and  drank 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


179 


a  couple  of  glasses  of  sherry;  and,  having 
thus  gone  through  a  sliow  of  dining,  he  went 
with  Mr.  Bulstrode  to  neek  Aurora. 

She  was  sitting  with  lier  oou?in  in  tlie  morn- 
ing-room, looking  terribly  pale  in  the  dim  dusk 
of  the  August  evening — pale  and  shadowy  in 
her  loose  white  muslin  dress.  Slie  had  only 
lately  risen,  after  a  long  feverish  slumber,  and 
had  pretended  to  dine  out  of  courtesy  to  her 
guest.  Lucy  had  tried  in  vain  to  comfort  her 
cousin.  This  passionate,  impetuous,  spoiled 
child  of  fortune  and  affection  refnsed  all  con- 
solation, crying  out  again  and  again  that  she 
had  lost  her  husband's  love,  and  that  there 
was  nothing  left  for  her  upon  earth. 

But  in  the  very  midst  of  one  of  these  de- 
sponding speeches  she  s])rang  up  from  her  seal, 
erect  and  trembling,  with  licr  parted  lips 
quivering  and  her  dark  eyes  dilated,  startled 
by  the  sound  of  a  familiar  step,  which  within 
the  last  few  da}"s  had  be(>n  seldom  heard  in 
the  corridor  outside  her  room.  Siu;  tried  to  j 
speak,  but  her  voice  failed  her ;  and  in  an- 
other moment  the  door  had  bci'n  dasheil  open 
by  a  strong  hand,  and  her  husband  stood  in 
the  room,  holding  out  his  arms  and  calling  to 
her: 

"  Aurora  !  Aurora. !  my  own  dear  love,  my 
own  poor  darling !" 

She  was  folded  to  his  breast  bclbre  she 
knew  that  Talbot  Bulstrode  stood  close  behind 
him. 

"  My  own  darling,"  John  said,  "  my  own 
dearest,  you  can  not  tell  how  cruelly  I  have 
wronged  you.  But  oh,  my  love,  the  wrong 
has  brouiilit  unendurable  torture  with  it.  My 
poor,  guiltless  girl!  how  could  I  —  how  could 
I—  But  I  was  mad,  and  it  wa^  only  when 
Talbot — " 

Aurora  lifted  her  head  from  her  husband'^ 
breast,  and  looked  wonderingly  into  his  face, 
utterly  unable  to  guess  the  meaning  of  the.se 
broken  sentences. 

Talbot  laid  liis  hand  upon  his  friend's  .shoul- 
der. "  Yort  will  trigliten  your  wife  if  you  go 
on  in  this  manner,  John,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"  You  must  n't  take  any  notice  of  his  agita- 
tion, my  dear  Mrs.  Mellish.  There  is  no  cause, 
believe  me,  for  all  this  outcry.  AVill  you  sit 
down  by  Lucy  and  comj)ose  yourself?  It  is 
eight  o'clock,  and  between  this;  and  nine  we 
have  some  serious  business  to  .settle." 

"  Serious  business !''  repeated  Aiu'ora,  vague- 
ly. She  was  intoxicated  by  her  sudden  hap- 
piness. She  had  no  wish  to  ask  any  explana- 
tion of  the  mystery  of  the  past  few  (la\s.  It 
was  all  over,  and  her  faithful  liusband  loved 
her  as  devotedly  and  tenderly  as  ever.  How 
coulil  she  wish  to  know  more  than  this? 

She  seated  lierself  at  Lucy's  side,  in  obedi- 
ence to  Talbot;  but  she  still  held  her  hus- 
band's hand,  slie  still  l(X)ked  in  his  face,  for 
the  moment  most  supremely  unconscious  that 
the  scheme  of  creation  included  anything 
beyond  this  stalwart  Yorkshireman. 


Talbot  Bulstrode  lighted  the  lamp  upon 
Aurora's  writing-table — a  shaded  lamp,  which 
only  dimly  illuminated  the  twilight  room  — 
and  then,  taking  his  seat  near  it,  said  gravely  : 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Mellish,  I  shall  be  com- 
pelled to  say  something  which  I  fear  may 
inflict  a  terrible  shock  upon  you.  But  this  is 
no  time  for  reservation  —  scarcely  a  time  for 
ordinary  delicacy.  Will  you  trust  in  the  love 
and  friendship  of  those  who  are  around  you, 
and  promise  to  bear  this  new  trial  bravely  V 
I  believe  and  hope  that  it  will  be  a  very  brief 
one." 

Aurora  looked  wonderingly  at  her  husband, 
not  at  Talbot. 

"  A  new  trial  V"  she  said,  inquiringly. 

"  Y'ou  know  that  the  murderer  of  James 
Conyers  has  not  yet  been  discovered  ?"  .said 
Mr.  Bulstrode. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  what  of  that  ?" 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Mellish,  my  dear  Aurora, 
the  world  is  apt  to  take  a  morbid  delight  in 
horrible  ideas.  Tliere  are  some  people  who 
think  that  you  are  guiltv  of  this  crime  !'' 

She  rose  suddenly  from  her  low  seat,  and 

turned  her  face  toward  th<i  lamplight  with  a 

look   of  such    blank    amazement,  such   utter 

wonder  and  bcwihlerment,  that,  had  Talbot 

'  Bulstrode   until    that    moment    believed    her 

i  guilty,  he  must  thenceforth  and  for  ever  have 

1  been  firmly  convinced  of  her  innocence. 

'      "  /.'"  she  repeated. 

Then  turning  to  her  husband,  with  a  sud- 
den alteration  in  her  face,  that  blank  ama/o- 
ment  changing  to  a  look  of  sorrow,  mingled 
with  reproachful  wonder,  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice : 

"  1  oji  thought  this  of  me,  John ;  you 
thought  this  I" 

John  Mellish  bowed  his  head  before  her. 
"  I  did,  my  dear,"  he  murmured ;  •'  Go<l 
forgive  me  for  my  wicked  tolly  ;  I  did  think  this, 
Au'rora.  But  I  pitied  you,  and  was  sorry  for 
you,  my  own  dear  love ;  and  when  I  thought 
it  most,  I  would  have  died  to  save  you  fro«n 
shanje  or  sorrow.  My  lo\  e  has  never  changed, 
Aurora ;  my  love  has  never  changed." 

She   gave   him  her  hand,   and  once  more 

resumed  her  seat.     She  sat  for  some  moments 

in  silence,  as  if  trying  to  collect  her  thought;-, 

and  to  umlerstand  the  meaning  of  this  strange 

j  scene. 

"  Who  suspects  me  of  this  crime  ?  '  she  said, 
I  presently.     "  lias  any  one  else  suspected  me  V 

Any  one  besides — my  husband  V" 
;  "  I  can  st^-arcely  tell  you,  my  dear  Mrs. 
I  Mellish,"  answered  Talbot ;  "  when  an  event 
;  of  this  kin<l  takes  place,  it  is  very  diflicult  to 
1  say  who  may  or  may  not  be  suspected.  Dif- 
ferent persons  set  up  diflerent  theories :  one. 
t  man  writes  to  a  newspaper  to  declare  that, 
i  in  his  opinion,  the  crime  was  c»mniitted  by 
i  some  person  within  the  house ;  another  man 
\  writes  as  positively  to  another  paper,  assert 


180 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


ing  that  the  murderer  was  undoubtedly  a 
stranger.  Each  man  brings  forward  a  mass 
of  supposititious  evidence  in  favor  of  his  own 
argument,  and  each  thinks  a  great  deal  more 
of  proving  his  own  cleverness  than  of  fur- 
thering the  ends  of  justice.  No  shadow  of 
slander  must  rest  upon  this  house,  or  upon 
those  who  live  in  it.  It  is  necessary,  therefore, 
imperatively  necessary,  that  the  real  murderer 
should  be  found.  A  London  detective  is  al- 
ready at  work.  These  men  are  very  clever ; 
some  insignificant  circumstance,  forgotten  by 
those  most  interested  in  discovering  the  truth, 
would  be  often  enough  to  set  a  detective  on 
the  right  track.  This  man  is  coming  here 
at  nine  o'clock,  and  we  are  to  give  him  all 
the  assistance  we  can.  Will  you  help  us, 
Aurora '?" 

"  Help  you  ?     How  ?" 

"By  telling  us  all  you  know  of  the  night  of 
tlie  murder.  Why  were  you  in  the  wood  that 
night  ?" 

"  I  was  there  to  meet  the  dead  man." 

"  For  what  purpose  ?" 

Aurora  was  silent  for  some  moments,  and 
then,  looking  up  with  a  bold,  half- defiant 
glance,  she  said  suddenly  : 

"  Talbot  Bulstrode,  before  you  blame  or 
despise  me,  remember  how  the  tie  that  bound 
me  to  this  man  had  been  broken.  The  law 
would  have  set  me  free  from  him  if  I  had 
been  brave  enough  to  appeal  to  the  law ;  and 
was  I  to  suffer  all  my  life  because  of  the  mis- 
take I  had  made  in  not  demanding  a  release 
from  the  man  whose  gross  infidelity  entitled 
me  to  be  divorced  from  him  V  Heaven  knows 
I  had  borne  with  him  patiently  enough.  I 
had  endured  his  vulgarity,  his  insolence,  his 
presumption  ;  I  had  gone  penniless  while  he 
spent  my  father's  money  in  a  gambling-booth 
on  a  i-ace  -  course,  and  dinnerless  while  he 
drank  Champagne  with  cheats  and  reprobates. 
Remember  this  when  you  blame  me  most.  I 
went  into  the  wood  that  night  to  meet  him 
for  the  last  time  upon  this  earth.  He  had 
promised  me  that  he  would  emigrate  to  Aus- 
tralia upon  the  payment  of  a  certain  sum  of 
money." 

"  And  you  went  that  /light  to  pay  it  to 
him  ?"  cried  Talbot,  eagerly. 

"  I  did.  He  was  insolent,  as  he  always 
was ;  for  he  hated  me  for  having  discovered 
that  which  shut  him  out  from  all  claim  upon 
my  fortune.  He  hated  himself  for  his  folly 
in  not  having  played  his  cards  better.  Angry 
words  passed  betAveen  us;  but  it  ended  in  his 
declaring  his  intention  of  starting  for  Liver- 
pool early  the  next  morning,  and  —  " 

"  You  gave  him  the  money  ?" 

"  Yes." 

'*  But  tell  me  —  tell  me,  Aurora,"  cried  Tal- 
bot, almost  too  eager  to  find  words,  "  how  lon<>' 
bad  you  left-  him  when  you  heard  the  report 
of  the  pistol  ?" 

•'  Not  more  than  ten  minutes." 


"  John  Mellish,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bulstrode. 
"  was  there  any  money  found  upon  the  person 
of  the  nmrdered  man  ?" 

"  No  —  yes ;  I  believe  there  was  a  little  sil- 
ver," Mr.  Mellish  answered,  vaguely. 

"  A  little  silver ! '  cried  Talbot,  contempt- 
uously. "  Aurora,  what  was  the  sum  you 
gave  James  Conyers  upon  the  night  of  his 
death  ?" 

"  Two  thousand  pounds." 

"  In  a  check  V" 

"  No,  in  notes." 

"And  that  money  has  never  been  heard  of 
since  ?" 

No ;  John  Mellish  declared  that  he  had 
never  heard  of  it. 

"  Thank  God  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Bulstrode ; 
"we  shall  find  the  murderer." 

''  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  John. 

"  Whoever  killed  James  Conyers,  killed 
him  in  oi'der  to  rob  him  of  the  money  that  he 
had  upon  him  at  the  time  of  his  death." 

"  But  who  could  have  known  of  the  money  V" 
asked  Aurora. 

"Anybody ;  the  pathAvay  through  the  wood 
is  a  public  thoroughfare.  Your  conversation 
with  the  murdered  man  ma}-  have  been  over- 
heard. You  talked  about  the  money,  I  sup- 
pose V" 

"  Yes." 

"  Thank  God,  thank  God  !  Ask  your  wife's 
pardon  for  the  cruel  wrong  you  have  done 
her,  John,  and  then  come  down  stairs  with 
me.  It  's  past  nine,  and  I  dare  say  Mr. 
Grimstoue  is  waiting  for  us.  But  stay  —  one 
word,  Aurora.  The  pistol  with  which  this 
man  was  killed  was  taken  from  this  house  — 
from  John's  room.     Did  you  know  that  V" 

"  No ;  how  should  I  know  it '?"  Mrs.  Mel- 
lish asked,  naively. 

"  That  fact  is  against  the  theory  of  the  mur- 
der having  been  committed  by  a  stranger.  Is 
there  any  one  of  the  servants  whom  you  could 
suspect  of  such  a  crime,  John  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Mr.  Mellish,  decisively, 
"  not  one." 

"  And  yet  the  person  who  committed  the 
murder  must  have  been  the  person  who  stole 
your  pistol.  You,  John,  declare  that  very 
pistol  to  have  been  in  your  possession  upon 
the  morning  before  the  murder?" 

"  Most  certaiidy." 

"  You  put  John's  guns  back  into  their 
places  upon  that  morning,  Aurora,"  said  Mr. 
Bulstrode ;  "  do  you  remember  seeing  that 
particular  pistol  ?" 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Mellish  answered ;  •'  I  should 
not  have  known  it  from  the  others." 

"  You  did  not  find  any  of  the  servants  ia 
the  room  that  morning  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  Aurora  answered  immediately  ; 
"  Mrs.  Powell  came  into  the  room  while  I 
was  there.  She  was  always  following  me 
about,  and  I  suppose  she  had  heard  me  talking 
to  —  " 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


lai 


"  Talking  to  whom  ?" 

*'  To  James  Conyers'  hanger-on  and  mes- 
senger, Stephen  Hargraves  —  the  softy,  as 
they  call  him." 

"  You  were  talking  to  him  ?  Then  this  Ste- 
phen Hargraves  was  in  the  room  tliat  morning  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  he  brought  me  a  message  from  the 
murdered  man.  and  took  back  my  answer." 

"  Was  he  alone  in  the  room  ?" 

"  Yes;  I  found  him  there  when  1  went  in 
expecting  to  find  John.  I  dislike  the  man  — 
unjustly,  perhaps,  for  he  is  a  poor,  half-witted 
creature,  who,  I  dare  say,  scarcely  knows  right 
from  wrong,  and  I  was  angry  at  seeing  him. 
He  must  have  come  in  through  the  window." 

A  servant  entered  the  room  at  this  mo- 
ment. He  came  to  say  that  Mr.  Grimstone 
had  been  waiting  below  for  some  time,  and 
was  anxious  to  see  Mr.  Bulstrode. 

Talbot  and  John  went  down  stairs  together. 
They  found  Mr.  Joseph  Grimstone  sitting  at 
a  table  in  the  comfortable  room  that  had 
lately  been  sacred  to  Mrs.  Powell,  with  the 
shaded  lamj)  drawn  close  to  his  elbow,  and  a 
greasy  little  memorandum-book  open  before 
him.  He  was  tiiouglitfuUy  employed  making 
notes  in  this  memorandum-book  with  a  slumpy 
morsel  of  lead-pencil  —  when  do  these  sort  of 
people  begin  their  pencils,  and  how  is  it  that 
they  always  seem  to  have  arrived  at  the 
stump  y  —  when  the  two  gentlemen  entered. 

John  Mellish  leaned  against  the  mantle- 
piece,  and  eovered  his  face  with  his  hand. 
For  any  practical  purpose,  he  might  as  well 
have  been  in  his  own  room.  He  knew  noth- 
ing of  Talbot's  reasons  for  this  interview  with 
the  detective  officer.  He  had  no  shadowy  idea, 
no  growing  suspicion  shaping  itself  slowly  out 
of  the  confusion  and  obscurity,  of  the  irlcntity 
of  the  murderer.  He  only  knew  that  his  Au- 
rora was  innocent;  that  she  had  indignantly 
refuted  his  base  suspicion  ;  and  that  h«',  had 
seen  the  truth,  radiant  as  the  light  of  inspira- 
tion, shining  out  of  her  beautiful  face. 

Mr.  Bulstrode  rang,  and  ordered  a  bottle  of 
sherry  for  the  delectation  of  the  detective, 
and  then,  in  a  careful  and  business-like  man- 
ner, he  recited  all  that  he  had  been  able  to 
discover  upon  the  subject  of  the  murder. 
Joseph  Grimstone  listened  very  quietly,  fol- 
lowing Talbot  Bulstrode  with  a  shining  track 
of  lead-pencil  hieroglyphics  over  the  greasy 
paper,  just  as  Tom  Thumb  strewed  crumbs  of 
bread  in  the  forest  jiatliway  with  a  view  to 
his  homeward  guidance.  The  detective  only 
looked  up  now  and  then  to  drink  a  glass  of 
sherry,  and  smack  his  lij)s  with  the  quiet  ap- 
proval of  a  connoisseur.  When  Talbot  had 
told  all  that  he  had  to  tell,  ]\Ir.  Grimstone 
thrust  the  memorandum-book  into  a  very  tight 
breast-pocket,  and,  taking  his  hat  from  under 
the  chair  upon  which  he  had  been  seated, 
prepared  to  depart. 

"If  this  information  about  the  money  is 
quite  correct,"  he  said,    "  I  think   I  can   see 


my  way  through  the  affair  —  that  is,  if  we 
can  have  the  numbers  of  the  notes.  I  can't 
stir  a  peg  without  the  numbers  of  the  notes." 

Talbot's  countenance  fell.  Here  was  a 
death-blow.  Was  it  likely  that  Aurora,  that 
impetuous  and  unbusiness-like  girl,  had  taken 
the  numbers  of  the  notes  which,  in  utter 
scorn  and  loathing,  she  had  flung  as  a  last 
bribe  to  the  man  she  hated  ? 

"  I  'II  go  and  mak<!  inquiries  of  Mrs.  Mel- 
lish," he  said  ;  "  but  I  fear  it  is  scarcely  likely 
that  I  shall  get  the  information  you  want." 

He  left  the  room,  but  five  minutes  aflerward 
returned  triumphant. 

"  Mrs.  Mellish  had  the  notes  from  her  father," 
he  said.  "  Mr.  Floyd  took  a  list  of  the  numbers 
before  he  gave  his  daughter  the  money." 

"  Then,  if  you  '11  be  so  g«X)d  as  to  drop  Mr. 
Floyd  a  line,  asking  for  that  list  by  a  return 
of  post,  I  shall  know  how  to  act,"'  replied  the 
detective.  "I  have  n't  been  idle  this  after- 
noon, gentlemen,  any  more  than  you.  I  went 
back  after  I  parted  with  you,  Mr.  Bulstrode, 
and  had  another  look  at  the  pond.  I  found 
something  to  pay  me  for  my  trouble." 

He  took  from  his  waistcoat-pocket  a  small 
object,  which  he  held  between  his  finger  and 
thumb. 

Talbot  and  John  looked  intently  at  this  dingy 
object,  but  could  make  nothing  out  of  it.  it 
seemed  to  be  a  mere  disk  of  rusty  metal. 

"  It  's  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  bras? 
button,"  the  detective  said,  with  a  smile  of 
quiet  superiority ;  "  maker's  name  Crosby, 
Birmingham.  There  's  marks  upon  it  which 
seem  oncommon  like  blood ;  and,  unless  I  'm 
very  mueh  mistaken,  it  '11  be  found  to  fit 
pretty  correct  into  the  barrel  of  your  pistol, 
Mr.  Mellish.  So  what  we  've  got  to  do  is  to 
find  a  gentleman  wearin'  or  havin'  in  his  pos- 
session a  waistcoat  with  buttons  by  Crosby, 
Birmingham,  and  one  button  niissin';  and  if 
we  happen  to  find  the  same  gentleman  chang- 
in'  one  of  the  notes  that  Mr.  Floyd  took  the 
numbers  of,  I  don't  think  we  shall  be  very  far 
off  layin'  our  hands  on  the  man  we  want." 

With  which  oracular  speech  Mr.  Grimstone 
departed,  charged  with  a  commission  to  pro- 
ceed forthwith  to  Doncaster,  to  order  tin;  im- 
mediate printing  and  circulating  of  a  hundred 
bills,  offering  a  reward  of  £200  for  such  in- 
formation as  would  lead  to  the  aj)prehension 
of  the  murderer  of  James  Conyers  —  this  re- 
ward to  be  given  by  Mr.  Melli.sh,  and  to  be 
over  and  at»ove  any  reward  offered  by  the 
government. 


'  ciiaptp:r  xxx\ni. 

THK    IIRAS8    BUTTON,  HY    CROSBY,  BIRMTNO- 
I  IIAM. 

Mr.  Matthew  Harrison  and  Captain  Prod- 

I  der   were   both   accommodated   with   suitable 

entertainment  at  the  sign  of  the  "  Crooked 


182 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


Rabbit ;"  but  while  the  dog-fancier  appeared 
to  have  ample  employment  in  the  neighbor- 
hood—  employment  of  a  mysterious  nature, 
which  kept  hiin  on  the  tramp  all  day,  and 
sect  him  home  at  sunset,  tired  and  hungry, 
to  his  hostlery  —  the  sailoi-,  having  nothing 
whatever  to  do,  and  a  great  burden  of  care 
upon  his  mind,  found  the  time  hang  very 
h«avily  upon  his  hands,  although,  being  natu- 
rnlly  of  a  social  and  genial  temper,  he  made 
himself  very  much  at  home  in  his  strange 
quarters.  From  Mr.  Harrison  the  captain 
obtained  much  information  respecting  the  se- 
cret of  all  the  sorrow  that  had  befallen  his 
niece.  The  dog-fancier  had  known  James 
Conyers  from  his  boyhood  ;  had  known  his 
father,  the  "  swell "  coachman  of  a  Brighton 
Highflyer,  or  Sky-rocket,  or  Electric,  and  the 
associate  of  the  noblemen  and  gentlemen  of 
that  princely  era,  in  which  it  was  the  right 
thing  for  the  youthful  aristocracy  to  imitate 
the  manners  of  Mr.  Samuel  Weller,  senior. 
Matthew  Harrison  had  known  the  trainer  in 
his  brief  and  stormy  married  life,  and  had  ac- 
companied Aurora's  first  husband  as  a  hum- 
ble dependent  and  hanger-on  in  that  foreign 
travel  which  had  been  paid  for  out  of  Archi- 
bald Floyd's  check-book.  The  honest  cap- 
tain's blood  boiled  as  he  heard  that  shameful 
story  of  treachery  and  extortion  practised 
upon  an  ignorant  school-girl.  Oh,  that  he 
had  been  by  to  avenge  those  outrages  upon 
the-  child  of  the  dark-eyed  sister  he  had  loved! 
His  rage  against  the  undiscovered  murderer 
of  the  dead  man  was  redoubled  when  he  re- 
membered how  comfortably  James  Conyers 
had  escaped  from  his  vengeance. 

Mr.  Stephen  Hargraves,  the  softy,  took 
good  care  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  the 
"  Crooked  Rabbit,"  having  no  wish  to  en- 
counter Captain  Prodder  a  second  time  ;  but 
he  still  hung  about  the  Town  of  Doncaster, 
where  he  had  a  lodging  up  a  wretched  alley, 
hidden  away  behind  one  of  the  back  streets 
—  a  species  of  lair  common  to  every  large 
town,  and  only  to  be  found  by  the  inhabitants 
of  the  locality. 

The  softy  had  been  born  and  bred,  and  had 
lived  his  life  in  such  a  narrow  radius,  that  the 
uprooting  of  one  of  the  oaks  in  Mellish  Park 
could  scarcely  be  a  slower  or  more  painful 
operation  than  the  severing  of  those  ties  of 
custom  which  held  the  l)oorIsh  hanger-on  to 
the  neighborhood  of  the  household  in  which 
he  had  so  long  been  an  inmate.  But,  now 
that  his  occupation  at  Mellish  was  tor  ever 
gone,  and  his  patron,  the  trainer,  dead,  he 
wa.s  alone  in  the  world,  and  had  need  to  look 
out  for  a  fresh  situation. 

But  he  seemed  rather  slow  to  do  this.  He 
was  not  a  very  prepossessing  person,  it  must 
be  remembered,  an<l  there  were  not  very 
many  services  for  which  he  was  fitted.  Al- 
though upward  of  forty  years  of  age,  he  was 
generally  rather  loosely  described  as  a  young 


man  who  understood  all  about  horses,  and 
this  qualification  was  usually  sufficient  to  pro- 
cure for  any  individual  whatever  some  kind 
of  employment  in  the  neighborhood  of  Don- 
caster.  The  softy  seemed,  however,  rather 
to  keep  aloof  from  the  people  who  knew  and 
could  have  recommended  him ;  and  when 
asked  why  he  did  not  seek  a  situation,  gave 
evasive  answers,  and  muttered  something  to 
the  effect  that  he  had  saved  a  little  bit  of 
money  at  Mellish  Park,  and  had  no  need  to 
come  upon  the  parish  if  he  was  out  of  work 
for  a  week  or  two. 

John  Mellish  was  so  well  known  as  a  gene^i 
ous  paymaster,  that  this  was  a  matter  of  sur^ 
prise  to  no  one.  Steeve  Hargraves  had  no 
doubt  had  pretty  pickings  in  that  liberal 
household.  So  the  softy  went  his  way  un- 
questioned, hanging  about  the  town  in  a 
lounging,  uncomfortable  manner,  sitting  in 
some  public-house  tap-room  half  the  day  and 
night,  drinking  his  meagre  licjuor  in  a  sullen 
and  unsocial  style  peculiar  to  himself,  and 
consorting  with  no  one. 

He  made  his  appearance  at  the  railway 
station  one  day,  and  groped  helplessly  through 
all  the  time-tables  pasted  against  the  walls  ; 
but  he  could  make  nothing  of  them  unaided, 
and  was  at  last  compelled  to  appeal  to  a  good- 
tempere<l-looking  official  who  v/as  busy  on  the 
platform. 

"  I  want  th'  Liverpool  trayuns,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  can't  find  nowght  about!  'em  here." 

The  official  knew  Mr.  Plargraves,  and 
looked  at  him  with  a  stare  of  open  wonder. 

"My  word!  Steeve,"  he  said,  laughing, 
"  what  takes  you  to  Liverpool  ?  I  thought 
you  'd  never  been  farther  than  York  in  vour 
life." 

"Maybe  I  have  n't,"  the  softy  answered, 
sulkily ;  "  but  that 's  no  reason  I  should  a't  go 
now.  I  've  heard  of  a  situation  at  Liverpool 
as  I  think  '11  suit  me." 

"  Not  better  than  the  place  you  ha,l  with 
Mr.  Mellish." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  muttered  Mr.  Hargraves, 
with  a  frown  darkening  over  his  ugly  face  | 
"  but  Mellish  Park  be  no  pleace  for  me  now* 
and  arn't  been  for  a  long  time  past." 

The  railway  official  laughed. 

The  story  of  Aurora's  chastisement  of  the 
half-witted  groom  was  pretty  well  known 
among  the  towns-people  of  Doncaster,  and  I 
am  sorry  to  say  there  were  very  few  members 
of  that  sporting  community  who  did  not  ad- 
mire the  mistress  of  Mellish  Park  something 
more  by  reason  of  this  little  incident  in  her 
history. 

Mr.  Hargraves  i-eceived  the  desired  infor^ 
mation  about  the  railway  route  between 
Doncaster  and  Liverpool,  and  then  left  the 
station. 

A  shabby-looking  little  man,  who  had  also 
been  making  some  inquiries  of  the  same  official 
who  had  talked  to  the  softy,  and  had  conse- 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


183 


quently  heard  the  above  brief  dialogue,  fol-  1 
lowed   Stephen   Hargraves  from   the  station 
into  the  town.     Indeed,  had  it  not  been  that  i 
the  softy  was  unusually  slow  of  perception,  he 
might  have  discovered  that  upon  this  particu-  | 
lar   day  the  same   shabby-looking  little  man 
generally  happened  to  be  hanging  about  any  j 
and  every  place  to  which  he,  Mr.  Hargraves,  ■ 
betook  himself.     But  the  cast-off  retainer  of  ^ 
Meliish  Park  did  not  trouble  himself  with  any 
such  misgivings.     His  narrow  intellect,  never  i 
wide  enough  to  take  in  many  subjects  at  a 
time,  was  fully  absorbed  by  other  considera- 
tions; and   he  loitered  about   with  a  gloomy 
and  preoccupied  expression  on   his  face  that  i 
by  no  means  enhanced   his  personal  attrac-  | 
tions.  *  I 

Tt  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Joseph 
Grimstone  let  the  grass  grow  under  his  i'eet 
after    his   interview   with   John   MclIish   and  ; 
Talbot  Bulstrode.      He  had  heard  enough  to  ■ 
make  his  course  pretty  clear  to  him,  and  he  i 
went  to  work  (piietly  and  sagaciously  to  win 
the  reward  olVcrecl  to  him.  I 

Tliere  was  not  a  tailor's  shop  in  Doncaster  ; 
or  its  vicinity  into  which  the  detective  did  not  i 
make  his  way.  There  was  not  a  garment  [ 
confectionnee  by  any  of  the  civil  purveyors  ! 
upon  whom  he  intruded  that  Mr.  (irimstone 
did  not  e.Nan\ine;  not  a  drawer  of  odils  and  ! 
ends  which  he  did  not  ransack,  in  his  search 
for  buttons  by  "  Crosby,  maker,  Birmingham." 
But  for  a  long  time  he  made  his  inquisition  in  i 
vain.  Before  the  day  succeeding  tliatof  Tal-  | 
bot's  arrival  at  jNIellish  was  over,  tlie  detec-  | 
tive  had  visited  every  tailor  or  clothier  in  the  1 
neighborhood  of  the  racing  metropolis  of  the  i 
north,  but  no  traces  of  "  Crosby,  maker,  Bir-  1 
mingham,"  had  he  been  able  to  find.  Brass  j 
waistcoat-buttons  are  not  j)articularly  affected  ! 
by  Che  leaders  of  the  fashion  in  the  present  | 
day,  and  Mr.  Grimstone  found  almost  every  j 
variety  of  fastening  upon  the  waistcoats  he  i 
e.xamined  except  that  one  special  style  of : 
button,  a  specimen  of  which,  out  of  shape  and  j 
blood-stained,  he  carried  deep  in  his  trowser.s-  i 
jiocket. 

He  was  returning  to  the  inn  at  which  he 
had  taken   up  his  abode,  and  where   lie  was  ' 
supposed  to  be  a  traveller  in   the  Glenfield  I 
stare!)   and  sugar-plum  line,  tired  and  worn  i 
out  with  a  day's  useless  work,  when  he  was 
attracted  l)y  the  appearance  of  .some  ready- 
made  garments  gracefully  festooned  about  the 
door  of  a    Doncaster    pawnbroker,    who    ex- 
hibited   .'iilver  te;vspooiis,  oil   paintings,  boots  '. 
and  shoes,  <iropsical   watches,  doubttui  rings,  I 
and  remnants  of"  silk  and  satin    in   his  artis-  \ 
ti(Nally-arranged  window.  ! 

Mr.    (Jrimstone    stopped    .short    before    the  I 
money-lender's  portal. 

"  I  won't  lie  beaten,"  he  muttered  between  I 
his  teeth.     "  If  this  man   has  got  any  waist- 
coats, I  '11  have  a  look  at  'em."  | 

He   lounged    into  the   shop   in   a  leisurely  ' 


manner,  and  asked  the  proprietor  of  the 
establishment  if  he  had  anything  cheap  in 
the  way  of  fancy  waistcoats. 

Of  course  the  proprietor  had  everything 
desirable  in  that  way,  and  from  a  kind  of 
grove  or  arbor  of  all  manner  of  dry  goods  at 
the  back  of  the  shop  he  brought  out  half  a 
dozen  brown-paper  parcels,  the  contents  of 
which  he  exhibited  to  Mr.  Joseph  Grimstone. 

The  detective  looked  at  a  great  many  waist-i 
coats,  but  with  no  satisfactory  result. 

'*  You  have  n't  got  anything  with  bra.ss  but- 
tons, I  suppose  ?"  he  inquiri'd  at  last. 

The  proprietor  shook  his  head  reflectively. 

"  Brass  buttons  a'n't  nuich  worn  nowadays," 
lie  said  ;  "  but  I  '11  lay  I  've  got  the  very  thing 
you  want,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  I  got 
'em  an  uncommon  bargain  from  a  traveller  for 
a  Birmitigham  house,  who  was  here  at  the 
September  meeting  three  years  ago,  and  lost 
a  hatful  of  money  upon  Underhand,  and  left  a 
lot  of  things  with  me,  in  order  to  make  up 
what  he  wanted." 

Mr.  Grimstone  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the 
sound  of  "  Birmingham."  The  pawnbroker 
I'etired  once  more  to  the  mysterious  caverns 
at  the  back  of  his  shop,  and,  after  a  consider- 
able search,  succee(U;d  in  finding  what  he 
wanted.  He  brought  another  brown-paper 
parcel  to  the  counter,  turned  the  flaming  ga.s 
a  little  higher,  and  exhibited  a  heap  of  very 
gaudy  an<l  vulgar-looking  waistcoats,  evident- 
ly of  th;rt  species  of  manufacture  which  is 
generally  called  slop-work. 

"  These  are  the  goods,"  he  said;  "  and  very 
tasty  and  lively  things  they  are,  too.  I  had  a 
dozen  of  'em ;  and  I  've  onlv  got  these  five 
left." 

^Ir.  Grimstone  had  taken  up  a  waistcoat  of 
a  flaming  check  pattern,  and  was  examining 
it  by  the  light  of  the  gas. 

Yes ;  the  purpose  of  his  day's  work  was 
accomplished  at  last.  The  back  of  the  bra.s9 
buttons  bore  the  name  of  Cro.sby,  Birming- 
ham. 

"  You  've  only  got  five  left  out  of  the 
dozen,"  said  the  detective  ;  "  then  you  've  sold 
seven  ?" 

"  I  have."' 

"  Can  vou  remember  who  vou  sold  'em 
to  ?" 

The  pawnbroker  scratched  his  head  thought- 
fully. 

"  I  think  1  must  have  sold  'em  all  to  the 
men  at  the  works,"  he  said.  "  They  take 
their  wages  once  a  fortnight ;  and  there  's 
some  of  'em  drop  in  here  every  other  Saturday 
night  to  buy  something  or  other,  or  to  take 
something  out  of  pledge.  I  know  I  sold  four 
or  five  that  way." 

"  But  can  you  rememl)er  selling  one  of 
them  to  anybody  else,?"  asked  the  detective. 
"I  'm  not  asking  out  of  curiosity;  and  I 
don't  mind  standing  something  handsome  by 
and  by,  if  you  can  give  me  the  information  I 


184 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


want.  Think  it  over,  now,  and  take  your 
time.  You  could  n't  have  sold  'em  all  seven 
to  the  men  from  the  works." 

"No,  I  did  n't,"  answered  the  pawnbroker, 
after  a  pause.  "  I  remember,  now,  I  sold  one  of 
them — a  fancy  sprig  on  a  purple  gi'ound — to 
Josephs,  the  baker  in  the  next  street ;  and  I 
sold  another — a  yellow  stripe  on  a  brown 
ground  —  to  the  head  gardener  at  Mellish 
Park.' 

Mr.  Joseph  Grimstone's  face  flushed  hot 
and  red.  His  day's  work  had  not  been 
wasted.  He  was  bringing  the  buttons  by 
Crosby  of  Birmingham  very  near  to  where  he 
wanted  to  bring  them. 

"  You  can  tell  me  the  gardener  a  name,  I 
suppose  ?"  he  said  to  the  pawnbroker. 

"  Yes  ;  his  name  's  Dawson.  He  belongs  to 
Doncaster,  and  he  and  I  were  boys  together. 
I  should  not  have  remembered  selling  him  the 
waistcoat,  perhaps — for  it  's  nigh  upon  a  year 
and  a  half  ago —  only  he  stopped  and  had  a 
chat  with  me  and  my  missis  the  night  he 
bought  it." 

Mr.  Grimstone  did  not  linger  much  longer 
in  the  shop.  His  interest  in  the  waistcoats 
was  evidently  departed.  He  bought  a  couple 
of  second-hand  silk  handkerchiefs,  out  of 
civility,  no  doubt,  and  then  bade  the  pawn- 
broker good-night. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock ;  but  the  detec- 
tive only  stopped  at  his  inn  long  enough  to  eat 
about  a  pound  and  a  quarter  of  beefsteak, 
and  drink  a  pint  of  ale,  after  which  brief 
refreshment  he  started  for  Mellish  Park  on 
foot.  It  was  the  principle  of  his  life  to  avoid 
observation,  and  he  preferred  the  fatigue  of  a 
long  and  lonely  walk  to  the  risks  contingent 
upon  hiring  a  vehicle  to  convey  him  to  his 
destination. 

Talbot  and  John  had  been  waiting  hope- 
fully all  the  day  for  the  detective's  coming, 
and  welcomed  him  very  heartily  when  he 
appeared,  between  ten  and  eleven.  He  was 
shown  into  John's  own  room  this  evening,  for 
the  two  gentlemen  were  sitting  there  smoking 
and  talking  after  Aurora  and  Lucy  had  gone 
to  bed.  Mrs.  Mellish  had  good  need  of  rest, 
and  could  sleep  peacefully  now  ;  for  the  dark 
shadow  between  her  and  her  husband  had 
gone  for  ever,  and  she  could  not  fear  any 
peril,  any  sorrow,  now  that  she  knew  herself 
to  be  secure  of  his  love.  John  looked  up 
eagerly  as  Mr.  Grimstone  followed  the  ser- 
vant into  the  room ;  but  a  warning  look  from 
Talbot  Bulstrode  checked  bis  impetuosity, 
and  he  waited  till  the  door  was  shut  before  he 
spoke. 

■'  Now,  then,  Grimstone,"  he  said,  "  what 
news  ?" 

''Well,  sir,  I  've  had  a  hard  day's  work," 
the  detective  answered,  gravely,  "  and  per- 
haps neither  of  you  gentlemen  —  not  being 
professional — would  think  much  of  what  I  've 
done.     But,  for  all  that,  I  believe  I  'm  bring- 


in'  it  home,  sir ;  I  believe  I  'm  bringing  of  it 
home." 

"  Thank  God  for  that !"  murmured  Talbot 
Bulstrode,  reverently. 

He  had  thrown  away  his  cigar,  and  was 
standing  by  the  fireplace,  with  his  arm  resting 
upon  the  angle  of  the  mantle-piece. 

"  You  've  got  a  gardener  by  the  name  of 
Dawson  in  your  service,  Mr.  Mellish  ?"  said 
the  detective. 

"  I  have,"  answered  John ;  "  but,  Lord 
have  mercy  upon  us !  you  don't  mean  to  say 
you  think  it  's  him.  Dawson  's  as  good  a 
fellow  as  ever  breathed." 

"  I  don't  say  I  think  it  's  any  one  as  yet, 
sir,"  Mr.  Grimstone  answered,  sententiously  ; 
"  but  when  a  man,  as  had  two  thousand  pound 
upon  him  in  bank-notes,  is  found  in  a  wood 
shot  through  the  heart,  and  the  notes  missin' — 
the  wood  bein'  free  to  anybody  as  chose  to 
walk  in  it — it  's  a  pretty  open  case  for  sus- 
picion. I  should  like  to  see  this  man  Daw- 
son, if  it  's  convenient." 

"  To-night?"  asked  John. 

"  Yes ;  the  sooner  the  better.  The  less 
delay  there  is  in  this  sort  of  business,  the 
more  satisfactory  for  all  parties  —  with  the 
exception  of  the  party  that  's  wanted,"  added 
the  detective. 

"  I  '11  send  for  Dawson,  then,"  answered 
Mr.  Mellish;  "  but  I  expect  he  '11  have  gone 
to  bed  by  this  time." 

"  Then  he  can  but  get  up  again,  if  he  has, 
sir,"  Mr.  Grimstone  said,  politely.  "  I  've  set 
my  heart  upon  seeing  him  to-night,  if  it  's  all 
the  same  to  you." 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  John  Mellish 
was  likely  to  object  to  any  arrangement  which 
might  hasten,  if  by  but  a  moment's  time,  the 
hour  of  the  discovery  for  which  he  so  ardently 
prayed.  He  went  straight  oif  to  the  servants' 
hall  to  make  inquiries  for  the  gardener,  and 
left  Talbot  Bulstrode  and  the  detective  to- 
gether. 

'*  There  a'n't  nothing  turned  up  here,  I 
suppose,  sir,"  said  Joseph  Grimstone,  address- 
ing Mr.  Bulstrode.  "  as  will  be  of  any  help  to 
us  ?" 

"  Yes,"  Talbot  answered ;  "  we  have  got 
the  numbers  of  the  notes  which  Mrs.  Mellish 
gave  the  murdered  man.  I  telegraphed  to 
Mr.  Floyd's  country-house,  and  he  arrived 
here  himself  only  an  hour  ago,  bringing  the 
list  of  the  notes  with  him." 

"  And  an  uncommon  plucky  thing  of  the  old 
gentleman  to  do,  beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,"  ex- 
claimed the  detective,  with  enthusiasm. 

Five  minutes  afterward  Mr.  Mellish  re- 
entered the  room,  bringing  the  gardener  with 
him.  The  man  had  been  into  Doncaster  to 
see  his  friends,  and  only  returned  about  half 
an  hour  before ;  so  the  master  Of  the  house 
had  caught  him  in  the  act  of  making  havoc 
with  a  formidable  cold  joint,  and  a  great  jar 
of  pickled  cabbage,  in  the  servants'  hall. 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


185 


"  Now,  you  're  not  to  be  frightened,  Daw- 
son," said  the  young  squire,  with  friendly  in- 
discretion ;  "  of  course  nobody  for  a  monitMit 
suspects  you  any  more  than  they  suspect  me ; 
but  this  gentleman  here  wants  to  see  you,  and 
of  course  you  Iftiow  tliere  's  no  reason  that  he 
should  n  t  see  you,  if  he  wishes  it,  though  what 
he  wants  with  you — ". 

Mr.  McUish  stopped  abruptly,  arrested  by  a 
frown  from  Talbot  Bulstrode;  and  the  gar- 
dener, who  was  innocent  of  the  faintest  com- 
prehension of  his  master's  meaning,  pulled  his 
hair  rcspectiully,  and  shufHcd  nervously  upon 
the  slippery  Indian  matting. 

"  I  only  want  to  ask  you  a  question  or  two 
to  decide  a  wager  between  these  two  gentle- 
men and  me,  Mr.  Dawson,"  said  the  detective, 
■with  reassuring  familiarity.  "  You  bought  a 
second-hand  waistcoat  of  Gograni,  in  the  mar- 
ket-place, did  n't  you,  about  a  year  and  a  half 
ago  y" 

"Ay,  .sure,  sir.  I  bought  a  we.'skit  at  Go- 
gram's,"  answered  the  gardener  ;  "  but  it  were 
n't  second-hand — it  were  bran  new." 

"A  yellow  stripe  upon  a  brown  ground  ?" 

The  man  nodded,  with  his  mouth  wide 
open,  in  the  extremity  of  his  surjirisc  at  ♦his 
Louilon  stranger's  familiarit}'  with  the  details 
of  his  toilet. 

"  I  dunno  how  you  come  to  know  about  that 
weskit,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  grin  ;  "  it  were 
wore  out  full  si.x  months  ago;  for  I  took  to 
wearin' of 't  in  t' garden,  and  ganhin-work 
soon  spiles  anything  in  the  way  of  clothes; 
but  him  as  I  give  it  to  was  glad  enough  to 
have  it,  though  it  was  awful  shabby." 

'•  Him  as  you  give,  it  to?"  repeated  Mr.  Grim- 
stone,  not  pausing  to  amend  the  sentence  in 
his  eagerness.     "  You  gave  it  away,  then  ?" 

"  Yees,  I  gave  it  to  th'  softy:  and  was  n't 
the  poor  fond  chap  glad  to  get  it,  that  's  all  I" 

"  The  softy  ! '  exclaimed  Mr.  Grimstone. 
"  Who  's  the  softy  V" 

"  The  man  we  s])oke  of  last  night,"  answer- 
ed Talbot  Hulstrode;  "the  man  whom  Mrs. 
Mellish  found  in  this  room  ujjon  the  morning 
before  the  murder  —  the  man  called  Stephen  1 
llargravcs." 

"Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure;    I  thought  as  much,"  ! 
murmured  the  detective.     "  That,  will  do,  Mr. 
Dawson,'"  he  added,  addressing  the  gardener,  ] 
who  had  shuffled  a  good  deal  nearer  to  the 
doorway  in  his  uneasy  state  of  mind.     "  Stay, 
though;  I  may  a.s  well  ask  you  one  more  (jucs-  ; 
tion.      Were   any  of  the  buttons   missing   off! 
that  wai.stcoat  when  you  gave  it  away?" 

"  Not  one  on  'em,"  answered  tin;  gardener,  ] 
deci.sively.  "  My  missus  is  too  particular  fori 
that.  She  's  a  reg'lar  toidy  one,  .she  is;  allers  j 
mendin'  and  pafchin';  and  if  one  of  t'  buttons  j 
got  loose,  she  was  sure  to  .sew  it  on  toight  i 
again  before  it  was  lost."  j 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Dawson,"  returned  the  i 
detective,  with  the  friendly  condescension  ofj 
a  superior  being.     "  Good-night."  i 


The  gardener  shuffled  off,  very  glad  to  be 
released  from  the  awful  presence  of  his  supe- 
riors, and  to  go  back  to  the  cold  meat  and 
pickles  in  the  servants'  hall. 

"  I  think  I  "m  bringing  the  business  into  a 
nutshell,  sir,"  saiil  Mr.  Grimstone,  when  the 
door  had  closed  upon  the  gardener.  "  But 
the  less  said  the  better  just  yet  a  while.  I  'II 
take  the  list  of  the  numbers  of  the  notes, 
plea.se,  sir;  and  I  believe  I  shall  come  upon 
you  for  that  two  hundred  pound,  Mr.  Mellish, 
before  either  of  us  is  many  weeks  older." 

So,  with  the  list  made  by  cautious  Ai-chi- 
bald  Floyd  bestowed  .safely  in  his  waistt;oat- 
poeket,  Mr.  Joseph  Grimstone  walked  back 
to  Doncaster  through  the  still  summer's  night, 
intent  upon  the  business  he  had  undertaken. 

"  It  looked  uncommon  black  against  the 
lady  about  a  week  ago,"  he  thought,  as  he 
walked  meditatively  across  the  dewy  grass  in 
Mellish  Park;  "and  I  fancy  the  information 
tiiey  got  at  the  Yard  woidd  have  put  a  ibol 
upon  the  wrong  .scent,  and  kept  him  on  it  till 
the  right  one  got  worn  out.  But  it  's  clearing 
up  —  it 's  clearing  up  beautiful ;  and  I  think 
it  'II  turn  out  one  of  the  neatest  cases  I  ever 
had  the  handlins:  of" 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

OFF    THK    SCENT. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that,  with  the 
button  by  Crosby  in  his  pocket,  and  with  the 
information  accjuircd  from  Dawson,  the  gar- 
deniir,  stowed  away  carefully  in  his  mind,  Mr. 
Jo.seph  Grimstone  looked  with  an  eye  of  par- 
ticular interest  upon  Steeve  llargravcs,  the 
softy. 

The  detective  had  not  come  to  Donca.stcr 
alone.  He  had  brought  with  him  an  humble 
ally  and  follower  in  the  shape  of  the  little 
shabby-looking  man  who  had  encountered  the 
softy  at  the  railway  station,  having  received 
orders  to  keep  a  close  watch  upon  Mr.  Sti^phen 
Hargraves.  It  was,  of  course,  a  very  easy 
matter  to  identify  the  softy  in  the  Town  of 
Doncaster,  where  he  had  been  pretty  general- 
ly known  sin<;e  his  childhood. 

Mr.  Grimstone  had  calh'd  upon  a  medical 
])ract!tioner,  and  had  submitted  tiie  button  to 
him  for  inspection.  The  stains  u])on  it  were 
indeed  that  which  the  detective  hail  suppo.sed, 
blood ;  and  the  .surgeon  detected  a  minute 
morsel  of  cartilage  adhering  to  the  jagged 
hasp  of  the  button ;  but  the  same  surgeon 
declared  that  this  mi.ssile  i-ould  not  have  beea 
the  only  one  used  by  th(!  murderer  of  James 
Conyers.  It  had  not  been  through  the  dead 
man's  body ;  it  Lad  inflicted  only  a  surface 
wounil. 

The  business  wliich  now  lay  before  Mr. 
Grimstone  was  the  tracing  of  one  or  other  of 
the  bank-notes;  and  for  this  purpose  he  aod 


186 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


liis  ally  sot  to  ■work  upon  tlio  track  of  the 
softy,  with  a  view  of  discovering;  all  the  places 
which  it  was  his  habit  to  visit.  The  haunts 
affected  by  Mr.  Hargraves  turned  out  to  be 
some  half-dozen  very  obscure,  public -houses, 
and  to  each  of  these  Joseph  Grimstone  went 
in  person. 

But  he  could  discover  nothing.  All  his  in- 
(juiries  only  elicited  the  fact  that  Stephen 
Hargraves  had  not  been  observed  to  change, 
or  attempt  to  change,  any  bank-note  whatever. 
He  had  paid  for  all  he  had  had,  and  spent 
more  than  it  was  usual  for  him  to  spend,  drink- 
ing a  good  deal  harder  than  had  been  his 
habit  theretofore ;  but  he  had  paid  in  silver, 
except  on  one  occasion,  when  he  had  changed 
a  sovereign.  Tiie  detective  called  at  the 
bank  ;  but  no  person  answering  the  descrip- 
tion of  Steplien  Hargraves  had  been  observed 
there.  The  detective  endeavored  to  discover 
any  friends  or  companions  of  the  softy;  but 
iiere  again  he  failed.  The  half-witted  hang- 
er-on of  the  Mellish  stables  had  never  made 
any  friends,  being  entirely  deficient  in  all  so- 
cial qualities. 

There  was  something  almost  miraculous  in 
the  manner  in  whicii  Mr.  Joseph  Grimstone 
contrivetl  to  make  himself  master  of  any  infor- 
mation wliich  he  wished  to  acquire ;  and  be- 
fore noon  on  the  day  after  his  interview  with 
Mr.  Dawson,  the  gardener,  he  had  managed 
to  eliminate  all  the  facts  set  down  above,  and 
had  also  succeeded  in  ingratiating  himself  into 
the  confidence  of  the  dirty  old  proprietress  of 
that  humble  lodging  in  which  the  softy  had 
taken  up  his  abode. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  this  story  to  tell 
how  the  detective  went  to  work  ;  but  while 
Stephen  Hargraves  sat  soddening  his  stupid 
brain  with  medicated  beer  in  a  low  tap-room 
not  far  off,  and  while  Mr.  Grirastone's  ally 
kept  close  watch,  holding  himself  in  readiness 
to  give  warning  of  any  movement  on  the  part 
of  the  suspected  individual,  Mr.  Grimstone 
himself  went  so  cleverly  to  work  in  his  manip- 
ulation of  the  softy's  landlady,  that  in  less 
than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  taken  full 
possession  of  that  weak  point  in  the  intellect- 
ual citadel  which  is  commonly  called  the  blind 
side,  and  was  able  to  do  what  he  pleased  with 
the  old  woman  and  her  wretched  tenement. 

His  peculiar  pleasure  was  to  make  a  very 
elaborate  examination  of  the  apartment  rent- 
ed by  the  softy,  and  any  other  apartments, 
cupboards,  or  hiding-places  to  which  Mr.  Har- 
graves had  access.  But  he  found  nothing  to 
reward  him  for  his  trouble.  The  old  woman 
was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  casual  lodgers, 
resting  for  a  night  or  so  at  Doncaster  before 
tramping  further  on  their  vagabond  wander- 
ings ;  and  the  six-roomed  dwelling-place  was 
only  furnished  with  such  meagre  accommoda- 
tion as  may  be  expected  for  fourpence  and 
sixpence  a  night.  There  were  few  hiding- 
places.      No   carpets,   underneath  which   fat 


bundles  of  bank-notes  might  be  hidden ;  no 
picture-frames,  behind  which  the  same  species 
of  property  might  be  bestowed;  no  ponderous 
cornices  or  heavily -fringeil  valances  shroud- 
ing the  windows,  and  afibrdinn^  dusty  recesses 
wherein  the  title  -  deeds  of  haft"  a  dozen  for- 
tunes might  lie  and  rot.  There  were  two  or 
three  cupboards,  into  which  Mr.  Grimstone 
penetrated  with  a  tallow  candle  ;  but  he  dis- 
covered nothing  of  any  more  importance  than 
crockery-ware,  lucifer-matches,  firewood,  po- 
tatoes, bare  ropes,  on  which  an  onion  lingered 
here  and  there,  and  sprouted  dismally  in  its 
dark  loneliness,  empty  ginger -beer  bottles, 
oyster -shells,  old  boots  and  shoes,  disabled 
mouse-traps,  black  beetles,  and  humid  fungi 
rising  ghost-like  from  the  damp  and  darkness. 

Mr.  Grimstone  emerged,  dirty  and  discom- 
fited, from  one  of  these  dark  recesses  after  a 
profitless  search  which  had  occupied  a  couple 
of  weary  hours. 

"  Some  other  chap  Ml  go  in  and  cut  the 
ground  under  my  feet.  If  I  waste  my  time  this 
way,"  thought  the  detective.  "  I  'm  bless'd  if 
I  don't  think  I  've  been  a  fool  for  my  pains. 
Ti.e  man  carries  the  money  about  him,  that  's 
clear  as  mud;  and  if  I  were  to  search  Don- 
caster  till  mj'  hair  got  gray,  I  should  n't  find 
what  I  want." 

Mr.  Grimstone  shut  the  door  of  the  last  cup- 
board which  he  had  examined  with  an  impa- 
tient slam,  and  then  turned  toward  the  win- 
dow. Tin  i-e  was  no  sign  of  his  scout  in  the 
little  alley  before  the  iiouse,  and  he  had  time, 
tiierefore,  ibr  further  business. 

He  had  examined  everything  in  the  softy's 
apartment,  and  he  had  paid  particular  atten- 
tion to  the  state  of  Mr.  Hargraves'  wardrobe, 
which  consisted  of  a  pile  of  garments,  every 
one  of  which  bore  in  its  cut  and  fashion  the 
stamp  of  a  different  individuality,  and  thereby 
proclaimed  itself  as  having  belonged  to  an- 
other master.  There  was  a  Newmarket  coat 
of  John  Mellish's,  and  a  pair  of  hunting- 
breeches,  which  could  only  have  been  built 
by  the  great  Poole  himself,  split  across  the 
knees,  but  otherwise  little  the  worse  for  wear. 
Thei-e  was  a  linen  jacket,  and  an  old  livery 
waistcoat  that  had  belonged  to  one  of  the  ser- 
vants at  the  Park ;  odd  tops  of  every  shade 
known  in  the  hunting-field,  from  the  spotless 
white,  or  the  delicate  Champagne -cleaned 
color  of  the  dandy,  to  the  favorite  vinegar 
hue  of  the  hard -riding  country  squire;  a 
groom's  hat  with  a  tarnished  band  and  a  bat- 
tered crown;  hobnailed  boots,  which  might 
have  belonged  to  Mr.  Dawson ;  corduroy 
breeches,  that  could  only  have  fitted  a  drop- 
sical lodge-keeper  long  deceased ;  and  there 
was  one  garment  which  bore  upon  it  the 
ghastly  impress  of  a  dreadful  deed,  that  had 
but  lately  been  done.  This  was  the  velveteen 
shooting -coat  worn  by  James  Conyers,  the 
trainer,  which,  pierced  with  the  murderous 
bullet,  and  stiffened  by  the  soaking  torrent  of 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


18^ 


blood,  had  been  appropriated  by  Mr.  Stephen  ]  the  waist(;oat  off  which  that  button  came  in 
Hargraves  in  the  confusion  of  the  catcistrophe.  his  possi'ssiou,  it  woiihl  n't  be  bad  evidence  of 
All  these  things,  with  isundry  rubbish  in  the  1  the  murder,  putting  the  two  things  together; 
Avay  of  odd  spurs  and  whip-handles,  S('raps  of  1  but  we  shall  have  to  keep  a  preshus  sharp 
broken  harness,  ends  of  rope,  and  surh  other  I  watch  upon  my  friend  while  we  lunit  up  what 
scrapings  as  only  a  miser  loves  to  accuuuilate,  .  we  want,  or  1  'm  bless'd  if  he  won't  give  us 
were  packed  in  a  lumbering  trunk  covered  I  the  slip,  and  be  off  to  Liverpool,  and  out  of 
with  mangy  fur,  and  secured  by  about  a  doz-  i  the  country  before  we  know  where  we  are." 
en  yardsof  knotted  and  Jagged  rope,  tied  !  Now  the  truth  of  the  matter  is,  that  Mr. 
about  it  in  such  a  manner  as  the  softy  had  i  Joseph  Grimstone  was  not,  perhaps,  acting 
cpnsidereil  sufficient  to  defy  the  most  artful  ;  quite  so  conscientiously  in  this  business  as  he 
thief  in  Ciiristcndom.  might  have  done,  had  the  love  of  justice  in 

Mr.  Grimstone  had  made  very  .short  work  of  i  the  abstract,  and  without  any  relation  to  sub- 
all  the  elaborate  defences  in  the  way  of  knots  ,  binary  rew.ivd,  been  the  ruling  principle  of 
nnd  entanglements,  and  had  ransacked  the  j  his  life.  He  might  have  had  any  help  be 
V)0x  from  one  end  to  the  other;  nav,  had  even  1  pleased  from  the  Donca.ster  constabulary,  had 
closely  examined  the  fur  covering  of  the  trunk,  j  he  chosen  to  confide  in  the  members  of  that 
and  had  tested  each  se])arate  brass  -  headed  I  force  ;  but  as  a  very  knowing  individual  who 
nail  to  ascertain  if  any  of  them  had  been  re-  ;  owns  a  three-year  old  which  he  has  reason  to 
moved  or  altered.  He  may  have  thought  it  \  helievc  "'a  fiyer  "  is  ai)t  to  keep  tlie  capabili- 
just  possible  that  two  thousand  pounds  worth  ties  of  iiis  horse  a  secret  from  his  friends  and 
"of  Bank  of  England  paper  had  been  nailed  the  sporting  public  while  he  puts  a  ''pot"  of 
down  under  the  mangy  fiir.  He  gave  a  weary  '  money  upon  the  animal  at  enormous  odds,  so 
sigh  as  he  concluded  his  inspection,  replaced  '  Mr.  Grimstone  desired  to  keep  his  information 
the  garments  one  by  one  in  the  trunk,  re-  to  himself  until  it  should  have  brought  him 
knotted  and  secur.»d"  the  jagged  cord,  and  ;  its  golden  fruit,  in  the  shape  of  a  small  reward 
turned  his  back  upon  the  softy's  chamber.         j  from  govcriuuent  and  a  large  one  from  John 

"It  's  no  go  "  he  thought.     "  The  yellow-    Mellish. 


striped  waistcoat  is  n"t  among  his  clothes,  and 
ihe  money  is  n't  hidden  away  anj  where.  Can 
he  be  deep  enough  to  have  destroyed  that 
waistcoat,  I  wonder  ?  He  'd  got  a  red  wool- 
len one  on  this  morning;  perhaps  he  's  got 
the.  yellow-sti'iped  one  under  it  " 

Mr.  Grimstone  brushed  the  dust  ami  cob- 
webs off  his  clothes,  washed  his  hands  in  a 
greasy  wooden  bowl  of  scalding  water  which 
the  old  woman  brought  him,  and  then  sat 
down  before  the  fire,  pii  king  lii.s  teeth  thought- 
fully, anil  with  his  eyebrows  .set  in  a  reflective 
frown  over  his  small  gray  eyes. 

"I  don't  like  to  be  beat,"  he  thouijht.  "I 


The  detective  had  reason  to  know  that  the 
DogV)errys  of  Doncastcr,  uiishMl  by  a  duplicate 
of  that  very  letter  which  had  first  aroused  the 
attention  of  Scotland  Yard,  were  on  the 
wrong  scent,  as  he  had  been  at  first ;  and  he 
was  very  well  content  to  leave  them  where 
they  were. 

"  No,"  he  thought,  ''  it  's  a  critical  game  ; 
but  I  'II  play  it  single-handed,  or,  at  least, 
with  no  one  bettf'r  than  Tom  Chivers  to  help 
me  through  with  it;  and  a  ten-pound  note  will 
satisfy  him,  if  we  win  the  day." 

Pondering  thu.s,  Mr.  Grimstone  departed, 
after   having   recompensed   the    landlady   for 


don't  like  to  be  beat."  He  doubted'  if  any  j  her  civility  by  a  donation  which  tiie  old  wom- 
magistrate  would  grant  him  a  warrant  against  j  an  considered  princely. 

the  softy  upon  the  strength  of  the  evidence  He  had  entirely  deluded  her  as  to  the  ob- 
in  his  possession— the  blood-.stained  button  by  ,  ject  of  his  search,  l)y  telling  her  that  he  was  a 
Crosby  of  Birmingham;  and  without  a  war- ,  lawyer's  clerk,  commissioned  by  his  employer 
rant  he  could  not  search  for  the  notes  upon  \  to  liunt  for  a  codicil  which  hail  been  hidden 
the  person  of  the  man  he  suspected.  He  had  j  somewhere  in  that  house  by  an  old  man  who 
>ounded  all  the  out-iloor  .servants  at  Mellish,  \  had  lived  in  it  in  the  year  1783;  and  he  had 
but  had  been  able  to  discover  nothing  that  '  contrived,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  to 
threw  anv  li^ht  u])on  the  movements  of  Ste-  1  draw  from  the  old  woman,  who  was  of  a  gar- 
I)hen  Hargraves  on  the  night  of  the  murder,  j  rulous  turn,  all  that  she  had  to  tell  about  the 
No  one  remembered  having  seen  him:  no  one  !  sofVy. 

had  been  on  tlie  southern  side  of  the,  wood  '  It  was  not  mueh,  certaiidy.  Mr.  Hargraves 
that  nii:ht.  One  of  the  lads  had  pa.'^.sed  the  ^  had  never  changed  a  bank-note  with  her 
north  lodge  on  his  wav  fiom  the  high-road  to  '  knowledge.  He  had  paid  for  his  bit  of  vict- 
rhe  stables^  about  the  time  at  whi<h  Aurora  had  ualn  a.s  he  had  it,  but  had  not  .spent  a  shilling  a 
heard  the  shot  fired  in  the  wood,  and  had  seen  day.  As  to  bank-notes,  it  was  n't  at  all  likely 
a  light  burning  in  the  lower  window;  but  this,  that  he  had  any  of  them  ;  for  he  was  alway.'i 
of  course,  proved  nothing  either  omr  way  or  '  complaining  that  he  was  very  poor,  and  that 
the  other.  "         j  his  little  bit  of  savings,  scraped  together  out 

"  If  we   could   find    the   monev  »//<ou   him,"    of  his  wages,  would  n't  last  him  long, 
thought  Mr.   Grimstone,  "  it  would  be  pretty  ;      "  This  Hargraves  is  a  precious  deep  'un,  for 
Mtrong  proof  of  the  robbery  ;  and  if  wc  find  '•  all  they  call  him  soft, '  thought  Mr.  Grimstone, 


188 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


as  he  left  the  lodging-house,  and  walked  slow- 
ly toward  the  sporting-public  at  which  he  had 
left  the  softy  under  the  watchful  eye  of  Mr. 
Tom  Chivers.  "I  've  often  heard  sa}' that 
these  half-witted  chaps  have  more  cunning  in 
their  little  fingers  than  a  better  man  has  in 
the  whole  of  his  composition.  Another  man 
would  never  have  been  able  to  stand  against 
the  temptation  of  changing  one  of  those 
not^s;  or  would  have  gone  about  wearing  that 
identical  waistcoat;  or  would  have  made  a 
bolt  of  it  the  day  after  the  murder :  or  tried 
on  something  or  another  that  would  have 
blown  the  gaiFupon  him  ;  but  not  your  softy! 
He  hides  the  notes,  and  he  hides  the  waistcoat, 
and  then  he  laughs  in  his  sleeve  at  those  that 
want  him,  and  sits  drinking  his  beer  as  com- 
fortably as  you  please." 

Pondering  thus,  the  detective  made  his  way 
to  the  public-house  in  which  he  had  left  Mr. 
Stephen  Hargraves.  He  ordered  a  glass  of 
brandy  and  water  at  the  bar,  and  walked  into 
the  tap-room,  expecting  to  see  the  softy  still 
brooding  sullenly  over  liis  drink,  still  guarded 
by  the  apparently  indifferent  eye  of  Mr. 
Chivers.  But  it  was  not  so.  The  tap-room 
was  empty  ;  and,  upon  making  cautious  in- 
quiries, Mr.  Grimstone  ascertained  that  the 
softy  and  his  watcher  had  been  gone  for  up- 
ward of  an  hour. 

Mr.  Chivers  had  been  forbidden  to  let  his 
charge  out  of  siglit  under  any  circumstances 
whatever,  except,  indeed,  if  the  softy  had 
turned  homeward  while  Mr.  Grimstone  was 
employed  in  ransacking  his  domicile,  in  which 
event  Tom  was  to  have  slipped  on  a  few  paces 
before  him,  and  given  warning  to  his  chief. 
Wherever  Stephen  Hargraves  went,  Mr. 
Thomas  Chivers  was  to  follow  him;  but  he 
was,  above  all,  to  act  in  such  a  manner  as 
would  effectually  prevent  any  suspicion  arising 
in  the  softy's  mind  as  to  the  fact  that  he  wa's 
followed. 

It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that  poor  Chivers 
had  no  very  easy  task  to  perform,  and  it  has 
been  seen  that  he  had  heretofore  contrived  to 
perform  it  pretty  skilfully.  If  Stephen  Har- 
graves sat  boozing  in  a  tap-room  half  the  day, 
Mr.  Chivers  was  also  to  booze,  or  to  make  a 
pretence  of  boozing,  for  the  same  length  of 
time.  If  the  softy  showed  a  disposition  to  be 
social,  and  gave  his  companion  any  opportu- 
nity of  getting  friendly  with  him,  the  detec- 
tive's underling  was  to  employ  his  utmost  skill 
and  discretion  in  availing  himself  of  that 
golden  chance.  It  is  a  wondrous  provision  of 
Providence  that  the  treachery  which  would 
be  hateful  and  horrible  in  any  other  man,  is 
considered  perfectl}-  legitimate  in  the  man 
who  is  employed  to  hunt  out  a  murderer  or  a 
thief  The  vile  instruments  which  the  crimi- 
nal employed  against  his  unsuspecting  victim 
are  in  due  time  used  against  himsiilf;  and 
the  wretch  who  laughed  at  the  poor  unsus- 
pecting  dupe   who    was  trapped    to   his   de- 


struction by  his  lies,  is  caught  in  his  turn  bv 
some  shallow  deceit  or  pitifully -hackneyed 
device  of  the  paid  spy,  who  has  been  bribed 
to  lure  him  to  his  doom.  For  the  outlaw  of 
society,  the  code  of  honor  is  null  and  void. 
His  existence  is  a  perpetual  peril  to  innocent 
women  and  honorable  men  ;  and  the  detective 
who  beguiles  him  to  his  end  does  such  a  ser- 
vice to  society  as  must  doubtless  counterbal- 
ance the  treachery  of  the  means  by  which  it 
is  done.  The  days  of  Jonathan  Wild  and  his 
compeers  are  over,  and  the  thief- taker  no 
longer  begins  life  as  a  thief.  The  detective 
officer  is  as  honest  as  he  Is  intrepid  and  astute, 
and  it  is  not  his  own  fault  if  the  dirty  nature 
of  all  crime  gives  him  now  and  then  dirty 
work  to  do. 

But  Mr.  Stephen  Hargraves  did  not  give 
the  opportunity  for  which  Tom  Chivers  had 
been  bidden  to  lie  in  wait;  he  sat  sullen, 
silent,  stupid,  unapproachable  ;  and  as  Tom's 
orders  were  not  to  force  himself  upon  his 
companion,  he  was  fain  to  abandon  all  thought 
of  worming  himself  into  the  softy's  good 
graces.  This  made  the  task  of  watching  him 
all  the  more  difficult.  It  is  not  such  a  very 
easy  matter  to  follow  a  man  without  seeming 
to  follow  him. 

It  was  market-day  too,  and  the  town  was 
crowded  with  noisy  country  people.  Mr. 
Grimstone  suddenly  remembered  this,  and  the 
recollection  by  no  means  added  to  his  peace 
of  mind. 

"  Chivers  never  did  sell  me,"  he  thought, 
"  and  surely  he  won't  do  it  now.  I  dare  say 
they  're  safe  enough,  for  the  matter  of  that,  in 
some  other  public.  I  '11  slip  out  and  look  after 
them." 

Mr.  Grimstone  had,  as  I  have  said,  already 
made  himself  acquainted  with  all  the  haunts 
affected  by  the  softy.  It  did  not  take  him 
long,  therefore,  to  look  in  at  the  three  or  four 
public -houses  where  Steeve  Hargraves  was 
likely  to  be  found,  and  to  discover  that  he 
was  not  there. 

"  He  's  slouching  about  the  town  somewhere 
or  other,  I  dare  say,"  thought  the  detective, 
"  with  my  mate  close  upon  his  heels.  I  '11 
stroll  toward  the  market-place,  and  see  if  I 
can  fiml  them  anywhere  that  way." 

Mr.  Grimstone  turned  out  of  the  by-street 
in  which  he  had  been  walking  into  a  narrow 
alley  leading  to  the  broad  open  square  upon 
which  the  market-pla(!e  stands. 

The  detective  went  his  way  in  a  leisurely 
manner,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  a 
cigar  in  his  mouth.  He  liad  perfect  confidence 
in  Mr.  Thomas  Chivers,  and  the  crowded 
state  of  the  market-place  and  its  neighbor- 
hood in  no  way  weakened  his  sense  of  secu- 
rity. 

"  Chivers  will  stick  to  him  through  thick 
and  thin,"  he  thought ;  "  he  '<i  keep  an  eye 
upon  his  man  if  he  had  to  look  after  him  be- 
tween Charing  Cross  and  Whitehall  when  the 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


189 


queen  was  going  to  open  Parliament.  He  's  i 
not  the  man  to  be  flummaxed  by  a  crowd  in  a  | 
country  market-place."  i 

Serene  in  this  sen.se  of  security,  Mr.  Grim-  j 
stone  amused  himself  by  looking  about  him,  I 
with  an  expression  of  somewhat  supei'cilious  : 
wonder,  at  the  manners  and  customs  of  tliose  ' 
indigenje  who,  upon  market-day,  make  their 
inroad  into  the  quiet  town.  ITc  paused  upon 
the  edge  of  a  little  sunken  Hight  of  worn  steps 
leading  down  to  the  stage-door  of  the  theatre, 
and  read  the  fragments  of  old  bills  moulder- 
ing upon  the  door-posts  and  lintel.  There 
were  glowing  announcements  of  dramatic 
performances  that  had  long  ago  taken  place  ; 
and,  above  the  rain  and  nuid- stained  relics 
of  the  past,  in  bold  black  lettering,  appeared 
the  record  of  a  drama  as  terrible  as  any 
that  had  ever  been  enacted  in  that  provin- 
cial theatre.  The  bill  -  sticker  had  posted 
the  announcement  of  the  reward  offered  by 
Jolni  Mellish  for  the  discovery  of  the  mur- 
derer in  every  available  spot,  and  had  not 
forgotten  this  position,  which  connnanded  one 
of  the  entrances  to  the  market-place. 

"  It 's  a  wonder  to  me,"  muttered  Mr.  Grim- 
stone,  "  that  that  blessed  bill  sliould  n't  have 
opened  the  eyes  of  these  Doncaster  noodles. 
But  I  dare  say  they  think  it  's  a  blind;  a 
planned  thing  to  throw  'cm  off  the  scent  their 
clever  noses  are  sticking  to  so  determined.  If 
I  can  get  nu/  man  before  they  open  their  eyes, 
I  shall  have  such  a  haul  as  I  have  n't  met  with 
lately." 

Rinsing  thus  pleasantly,  Mr.  Grimstone 
turned  his  back  upon  the  theatre,  and  crossed 
over  to  the  market.  Within  the  building  the 
clamor  of  buying  and  selling  was  at  its  height: 
noisy  countrymen  chaffering  in  their  northern 
poll, is  upon  the  value  and  merits  of  [toultry, 
butter,  and  eggs;  dealers  in  butcheis'  meat 
bewildering  themselves  in  the  endeavor  to 
simultaneously  satisty  the  demands  of  half  a 
dozen  sharp  and  bargain-loving  housekeepei-s; 
while  from  without  there  came  a  confused 
clatter  of  other  merchants  and  other  custom- 
ers, clamoring  and  hustling  round  the  stalls  of 
green  grocers,  and  the  slimy  barrows  of  blue- 
jacketed  fishmongers.  In  the  midst  of  all  this 
bustle  and  confusion,  Mr.  Grimstone  came 
saddeidy  upon  his  trusted  ally,  pale,  terror- 
.stricken,  and — alonk  I 

The  detective's  mind  was  not  slow  to  gra.sp 
the  full  force  of  the  situation. 

"  You  've  lost  him  !"  he  whispered  fiercely, 
seizing  the  unfortunate',  Mr.  Chivers  by  the 
collar,  and  ])inning  him  as  securely  as  if  he 
had  serious  thouglit,s  of  making  him  a  perma- 
nent fixture  upon  the  stone  flags  of  the  mar- 
ket-place. "You  've  lost  him,  Tom  Chivers !" 
he  continued,  hoarse  with  agitation.  "You 
've  lost  the  party  that  I  told  j  ou  was  worth 
more  to  me  than  any  other  party  I  ever  gave 
you  the  oflic(!  tor.  You  've  lost  me  the  best 
chance  I  've  ever  had  since  I  've  been  in  Scot- 


land Yard,  and  yourself  too;  for  I  should  have 
acted  liberal  by  you,"  added  tiie  detective, 
apparently  oblivious  of  that  morning's  reverie, 
in  whicli  he  had  predetermined  offering  his 
assistant  ton  pounds,  in  satisfaction  of  all  his 
claims — "  I  should  have  acted  liberal  by  you, 
Tom.     But  what  's  the  use  of  standing  jawing 


you  can 


Here  f     You  come   along  with   me ; 
tell  me  how  it  happened  as  we  go." 

With  his  powerful  grasp  still  on  the  under- 
ling's collar,  Mr.  (Jriinstone  walked  out  of  the 
market-place,  neither  looking  to  the  right  nor 
the  left,  though  many  a  pair  of  rustic  eyes 
opened  to  their  widest  as  he  passed,  attracted 
no  doubt  by  the  rapidity  of  his  pace  and  the 
obvious  determination  of  his  manner.  Per- 
haps those  rustic  by-standers  thought  that  the 
stern-looking  gentleman  in  the  black  frock- 
coat  had  arrested  the  shabby  little  man  in  the 
act  of  picking  his  pocket,  and  was  bearing 
him  off  to  deliver  him  straight  into  the  hands 
of  justice. 

Mr.  Grimstone  released  his  grasj)  when  he 
and  his  companion  had  got  clear  of  the  mar- 
ket-place. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  breathless,  but  not  slack- 
ening his  pace,  "  now  I  suppose  you  can  tell 
me  how  you  come  to  make  such  an  " — inad- 
missible adjective — "fool  of  yourself?  Never 
you  mind  where  I  'm  goin'.  I  'm  goin'  to  the 
railway  station.  Never  you  mind  why  I  'm 
goin'  there.  You  'd  guess  why  if  you  were 
n't  a  fool.  Now  tell  me  all  about  it,  can't 
you  ?" 

"  It  a'n't  much  to  tell,"  the  humble  follower 
gasped,  his  respiratory  functions  sadly  tried 
l)y  the  pace  at  which  his  superior  went  over 
the  groiind.  "  It  a'n't  much.  I  followed  your 
instructions  faithful.  I  tried,  artful  and  quiet- 
like, to  make  acquaintance  with  him,  but  that 
warn't  a  bit  of"  good.  He  was  as  surly  as  a 
bull-terrier,  so  I  did  n't  force  him  to  it,  but 
kept  an  eye  upon  him,  and  let  out  before  him 
as  it  was  raciii'  business  as  had  brouglit  me  to 
Doncaster,  and  as  I  was  here  to  look  after  a 
horse,  what  was  in  trainin'  a  few  miles  off,  for 
a  gent  in  London  ;  and  when  he  left  the  pub- 
lic I  went  after  him,  but  not  conspikiwous. 
But  I  think  from  that  minute  he  was  fly,  for 
he  did  n't  go  liiree  steps  without  lookin"  back, 
ami  he  led  me  such  a  chase  as  ma<ie  my  legs 
tremble  under  me,  which  they  trcinblesj  at 
this  moment;  and  then  begets  mt;  into  the 
market-place,  and  he  dodges  here,  and  he 
dodges  there,  and  wherever  the  crowd  's 
thickest  he  dodges  most,  till  he  gets  me  at  last 
in  among  a  ring  of  market-peojjle  round  a 
couple  a  coves  a  millin'  with  each  other,  and 
there  I  loses  him.  And  I  've  been  in  and 
out  the  market,  and  here  and  there,  until  I  'm 
fit  to  drop,  but  it  a'n't  no  good  ;  and  you  've 
no  call  to  lay  the  blame  on  me,  for  mortal 
man  could  n't  have  done  more." 

Mr.  Chivers  wiped  the  persjjiration  from 
his  face  in  testimony  of  his  exertions.     Dirty 


11>0 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


little  streams  were  rolling  down  his  forehead 
and  trickling  upon  his  poor  faded  cheeks.  He 
mopped  up  these  evidences  of  hi.s  fatigue 
witli  a  red  cotton  handkerchief,  and  gave  a 
deprecatory  sigh. 

"  If  there  's  anybody  to  lay  blame  on,  it  a'n't 
me,"'  he  said,  mildly.  "  I  said  all  along  you 
ought  to  have  had  help.  A  man  as  is  on  his 
own  ground,  and  knows  his  own  ground,  is 
more  than  a  match  for  one  cove,  however 
hard  he  may  work." 

The  detective  turned  fiercely  ujion  his  meek 
dependent. 

"  Who  's  blaming  you  ?"  he  cried,  impatient- 
ly. "  I  would  n't  cry  out  before  I  was  hurt, 
if  I  were  you." 

They  had  reached  the  railway  station  by 
this  time. 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  missed  him?" 
asked  Mr.  Grimstone  of  the  penitent  Chivers. 

"  lliree-quarters  of  a  hour,  or  it  may  be 
a  hour,"  Tom  added,  doubtfully. 

"  I  dare  say  it  (V  an  hour,"  muttered  the 
detective. 

He  walked  straight  to  one  of  the  chief  offi- 
cials, and  asked  what  trains  had  left  within 
the  last  hour. 

"Two,  both  market  trains;  one  eastward, 
Selby  way,  the  other  for  Penistone  and  the 
intervening  stations." 

The  detective  looked  at  the  time-table,  run- 
nin<i  his  thumb-nail  alonor  the  names  of  the 
stations. 

"  That  train  will  reach  Penistone  in  time 
to  catch  the  Liverpool  train,  won't  it?"  he 
asked. 

"Just  about." 

"  What  time  did  it  go?" 

"  The  Penistone  train  ?" 

"  Yes." 

'•  About  half  an  hour  ago  —  at  '2.30.'' 

The  clocks  had  struck  three  as  Mr.  Grim- 
stone  made  his  way  to  the  station. 

"  Half  an  hour  ago,"  muttered  the  detec- 
tive. '•  He  'd  have  had  ample  time  to  catch 
the  train  after  giving  Cliivers  the  slip." 

He  ({uestioned  the  guards  and  porters  as  to 
whether  any  of  them  had  seen  a  man  answei'- 
ing  to  the  description  of  the  softy :  a  white- 
faced,  humpbacked  fellow,  in  corduroys  and 
a  fustian  jacket ;  and  even  penetrated  into 
the  ticket-clerk's  office  to  ask  the  same  ques- 
tion. 

No;  none  of  them  had  seen  Mr.  Stephen 
Hargraves.  Two  or  three  of  them  recognized 
Lim  by  the  detective's  description,  and  asked 
if  it  was  one  of  the  stable-men  from  Mellish 
Park  that  the  gentleman  was  inquiring  after. 
Mr.  Grimstone  rather  evaded  any  direct  an- 
swer to  this  question.  Secrecy  was,  as  we 
know,  the  principle  upon  which  he  conducted 
his  affairs. 

"  He  may  have  contrived  to  give  'em  all 
the  slip,"  he  said,  confidentially,  to  his  faith- 
ful but  dispirited  ally.     "  He  may  have  got  off 


without  any  of  'em  seeing  him.  He  's  got 
the  money  about  him,  .1  'm  all  but  certain  of 
that,  and  his  game  is  to  get  off  to  Liverpool. 
His  inquiries  after  the  trams  yesterday  proves 
that.  Now  I  might  telegrajjh,  and  have  him 
stO[)ped  at  Liverpool — supposing  him  to  have 
given  us  all  the  slip,  and  gone  off  there  —  if 
I  like  to  let  others  into  the  game;  but  I  don't. 
I  '11  {day  to  win  or  lose;  but  I  '11  play  single- 
handed.  He  may  try  another  dodge,  and  get 
off  Hull  way  by  tli(!  canal-boats  that  the  mar- 
ket-people use,  and  then  slip  across  to  Ham- 
borough,  or  something  of  that  sort;  but  that 
a'n't  likely  —  these  fellows  always  go  one 
way.  It  seems  as  if  the  minute  a  man  has 
taken  another  man's  life,  oi-  forged  his  nauie, 
or  embezzled  his  money,  hi.s  ideas  gets  fixed 
in  one  groove,  and  never  can  soar  higher 
than  Liverpool  and  the  American  packet." 

Mr.  Chivers  listened  respectfully  to  his  pa- 
tron's communications.  He  was  very  well 
pleased  to  see  the  serenity  of  his  employer's 
mind  gradually  returning. 

"  Now,  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Tom,"  said  Mr. 
Grimstone.  "  If  th.is  chap  has  given  us  the 
slip,  why  he  's  given  us  the  slip,  and  he  's  got 
a  start  of  us  which  we  shan't  be  able  to  pick 
up  till  half-past  ten  o'clock  to-night,  when 
there  's  a  train  that  '11  take  us  to  Liver[)Ool. 
If  he  has  n't  given  us  the  slip,  there  's  only 
one  way  he  can  leave  Doncaster.  and  that  's 
by  this  station  ;  so  you  stjiy  here  patient  and 
quiet,  till  you  see  me,  or  hear  from  me.  If  he 
is  in  Doncaster,  I  'm  jia:gered  if  I  don't  find 
him." 

With  which  powerful  asseveration  Mr. 
Grimstone  walked  away,  leaving  his  scout 
to  keep  watch  for  tlie  possible  coming  of  the 
softy. 


cmaptp:r  XXXIX. 

TALBOT    lill.STKODK    MAKKS    ATONKMENT 
FOK    THK    PAST. 

John  ^Icllisli  and  Talbot  Bnlstrode  walked 
to  and  fro  upon  the  lawn  before  the  drawing- 
room  windows  on  that  afternoon  on  which  the 
detective  and  his  underling  lost  sight  of  Ste- 
phen Hargraves.  It  was  a  dreary  time,  this 
period  of  watching  and  waiting,  of  uncertain- 
ty and  apprehension,  and  poor  John  Mellish 
chafed  bitterly  under  the  burden  which  he 
had  to  bear. 

Now  that  his  friend's  common  sense  had 
come  to  his  relief,  and  that  a  few  plain,  out;- 
spoken  sentences  had  dispersed  the  terrible 
cloud  of  mystery,  now  that  he  himself  was 
fully  assured  of  his  wife's  innocence,  he  had 
no  patience  with  the  stupid  country  people 
who  held  themselves  aloof  from  the  woman  he 
loved.  He  wanted  to  go  out  and  do  battle 
for  his  slandered  wife  ;  to  hurl  back  every 
base  suspicion  into  the  faces  that  had  scowled 
upon  his  idolized  Aurora.     How  could  they 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


191 


dare,  these  foul-minded  slanderers,  to  harbor 
one  base  thought  against  tlie  purest,  the  most 
perfect  of  women  V  Mr.  Mellish,  of  course, 
quite  forgot  that  he,  the  rightful  defender  of 
all  this  perfection,  had  suffered  his  mind  to  be 
for  a  time  obscured  beneath  the  black  shadow 
of  that  vile  suspicion. 

He  hated  the  old  friends  of  his  youth  for 
their  base  avoidance  of  him;  the  servants  of 
his  household  for  a  half-doubtful,  half-solemn 
expression  of  face,  which  he  knew  had  rela- 
tion to  that  growing  suspicion,  tliat  horrible 
suspicion,  which  seemed  to  grow  stronger  with 
every  hour,  lie  broke  out  into  a  storm  of 
rage  with  the  gray-haired  butler,  who  had 
carried  him  pickapack  in  his  infancy,  because 
the  faithful  retainer  tried  to  hold  back  certain 
newspapers  which  contained  dark  allusions  to 
the  Mellish  mystery. 

''  Who  told  you  I  did  n't  want  the  Matiches- 
ter  Guardian,  Jarvis  y"  he  cried,  fiercely ; 
*'  who  gave  you  the  rigiit  to  dictate  what  I  'n) 
to  read  or  what  I  'm  to  leave  unread  V  I  do 
want  to-day's  Guardian ;  to-day's,  and  yester- 
day's, and  to-morrow's,  and  every  other  news- 
paper that  comes  into  this  house!  1  won't 
have  them  overliauled  by  you,  or  any  one,  to 
see  whether  they  "re  pleas.ant  I'cading  or  not, 
before  they  're  brought  to  me.  Do  you  think 
1  m  afraid  of  anything  tiiese  penny-a-liner 
fellows  can  write  V"  roared  the  young  squire, 
striking  his  open  hand  upon  the  table  at 
which  he  sat.  "  Let  them  write  their  best  or 
their  worst  of  me.  But  let  them  write  one 
word  that  can  be  twisted  into  an  insinuation 
upon  the  purest  and  truest  woman  in  all 
Christendom,  and,  by  the  Heaven  above  me, 
1  'il  give  them  such  a  thrashing  —  petiny-a- 
liuers,  printers,  publishers,  and  every  man- 
Jack  of  them  —  as  shall  make  them  remem- 
ber the  business  to  the  last  hour  of  their 
lives!" 

Mr.  Mellish  said  all  this  in  despite  of  the 
restraining    presence   of    Talbot    iiulstrode.  I 
Indeed,  the  young  mcml)er  for  IVnrutliy  had  . 
by   no  means  a   pleasant   time   of  il  during 
those  few  days  of  anxiety  and  suspense.     A 
keeper  set  to  watch  over  a  hearty  young  jun-  i 
gle   tiger,  and   bidden   to  prevent  the   nofile  | 
animal    from   committing    any     imprudence,  i 
niiglit  have  found  his  woik  little  harder  tlian  < 
that  whicii   Mr.  Bulstrode  did,  patiently  and 
uncomplainingly,  lor  pure  friendfclii[>'s  tak*;. 

John  Mellish  roamed   about  in  the  custody  I 
of  this  friendly  keeper,  with  his  short  auburn 
hair  tumbled    into   a   feverish-looking   mass, 
like  a  field  of  ripening  corn  that  had   been 
beaten   by  a  summer   hurricane,   his   cheeks  , 
sunken  atid  haggard,  and  a  ljri.>tling  yellow 
Btubble    upon   his  chin.     I   dare   »a}    he   had 
made  a  vow  neither  to  shave  nor  be  shaven 
until  the  murdi-rer  of  James  Conyi  rs  ghoul. i 
be   found.     He  clung   dcHpcrateiy   to   Talbot 
Bulstrode,  but  he  clung  with  still  wii<icr  de»-  , 
peration   to   the    detective,   the   professional  I 


criminal-hunter,  who  had,  in  a  manner,  tacit- 
ly pledged  himself  to  the  discovery  of  the 
real  homicide. 

All  through  the  fitful  August  day,  now  hoi 
and  still,  now  overclouded  and  showery,  the 
master  of  Mellish  Park  went  hither  and  thith- 
er—  now  sitting  in  his  study;  now  roaming 
out  on  the  lawn;  now  pacing  up  and  down 
the  drawing-room,  displacing,  disarranging, 
and  overturning  the  pretty  furniture;  now 
wandering  up  and  down  the  staircase,  lolling 
on  the  landing-places,  and  patrolling  the  cor- 
ridor outside  the  rooms  in  which  Lucy  and 
Aurora  sat  together,  making  a  show  of  em- 
ploying themselves,  but  only  waiting,  waitino', 
waiting  for  the  hoped-for  end. 

Poor  John  scarcely  cared  to  meet  that 
dearly-loved  wife ;  for  the  great  earnest  eyes 
that  looked  in  his  fa<;e  always  asked  the 
same  question  so  plainly  —  always  appealed 
so  piteously  for  the  answer  that  could  not  be 
given. 

It  was  a  weary  and  a  bitter  time.  I  won- 
der, as  1  write  of  it,  whun  I  think  of  a  quiet 
Somersetshire  household  in  which  a  dreadful 
deed  was  done  —  the  secret  of  which  has 
never  yet  been  brought  to  light,  and  perhaps 
never  will  be  revealed  until  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment— what  must  have  been  sulfcred  bv  eacli 
member  of  thai  family  ?  What  slow  agonies, 
what  ever-increasing  tortures,  while  that  cruel 
mystery  was  the  "  sensation  "  tojnc  of  con- 
versation in  a  thousand  haj)py  home  circles, 
in  a  thousand  tavern  parlors  and  pleasant 
club-rooms  —  a  common  and  ever-interesting 
topic,  by  means  of  which  travcIlLr.s  in  first- 
class  railway  carriages  might  break  down  the 
ceremonial  icebergs  which  surround  each 
travelling  Englishman,  and  grow  friendly  and 
confidential ;  a  safe  topic,  uj)on  which  even 
tacit  enemies  might  talk  pleasantly  without 
fear  of  wrecking  themselves  ujion  hidden 
rocks  of  personal  insinuation,  (iod  help  that 
household,  or  any  such  household,  tliroufrh 
the  weary  time  of  waiting  whicli  it  may  please 
Him  to  apj)oiiit,  until  that  tlay  in  which  it 
shall  be  His  good  pleasure  to  reveal  the  truth  ! 
God  help  all  patient  creatures  laboring  under 
the  burden  of  an  unjust  suspicion,  and  .sup- 
port tlu'in  unto  the  end  ! 

John  Mellish  chafed  and  fretted  himself 
ceaselessly  all  through  that  August  day  at  the 
nonappearance  of  the  detective.  Why  did 
n't  he  come  V  He  had  proniis(!d  to  bring  or 
send  them  news  of  his  proceeding.-*.  Talbot 
in  vain  assured  his  friend  that  Mr.  GriuMtone 
was  no  doubt  hard  at  work  ;  that  such  a  dis- 
covery as  he  had  to  make  was  not  to  be  made 
in  a  day  ;  and  tiiat  Mr.  Mellish  had  nothing 
U)  do  but  to  make  hiinsell  as  comfortable  as 
he  (rould,  and  wait  quietly  for  the  event  he 
desired  so  eagerly. 

'•  I  should  not  say  this  to  you,  John,"  Mi-. 
Bulstrode  said  by  and  by,  "  if  I  did  not  be- 
lieve—  as  I   know  this  man   Griiostonu  be- 


192 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


lievL's  —  that  wc  are  upon  the  right  track, 
and  are  pretty  sure  to  bring  the  ciime  home 
to  the  wi'ctch  who  committed  it.  You  can  do 
nothing  but  be  patient,  and  wait  the  result  of 
Grimstoue's  labors." 

"  Yes,"  cried  John  Mellish  ;  "  and,  in  the 
meantime,  all  these  people  are  to  say  cruel 
things  of  my  darling,  and  keep  aloof  from  her, 
and —  No,  I  can't  bear  it,  Talbot,  I  can't 
bear  it.  I  '11  turn  my  back  upon  this  con- 
founded place.  I  '11  sell  it ;  I  '11  burn  it 
down  ;  I  '11  —  I  '11  do  anything  to  get  away, 
and  take  my  precious  one  from  the  wretches 
■who  have  slandered  her!" 

"  That  you  shall  not  do,  John  Mellish,"  ex- 
claimed Taibot  Bulstrode,  "  until  the  murderer 
of  James  Conyers  has  been  discovered.  Go 
away  then  as  soon  as  }'ou  like,  for  the  associa- 
tions of  tliis  place  can  not  be  otherwise  than 
disagreeable  to  you — -lor  a  time,  at  least.  But, 
until  the  truth  is  out,  you  must  remain  here. 
If  there  is  any  foul  suspicion  against  Aurora, 
her  presence  here  will  best  give  the  lie  to  that 
suspicion.  It  was  her  hurried  journey  to  Lon- 
don which  first  set  people  talking  of  her,  I 
dare  say,"  added  Mr.  Bulstrode,  who  was,  of 
course,  entirely  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  an 
anonymous  letter  from  Mrs.  Powell  had  origi- 
nally aroused  the  susj^icions  of  the  Doncaster 
constabulary. 

So  through  the  long  summer's  day  Talbot 
reasoned  with  and  comforted  his  friend,  never 
growing  weai-y  of  his  task,  never  ibr  one  mo- 
ment losing  sight  of  the  interests  of  Aurora 
Mellish  and  her  husband. 

Perhaps  this  was  a  self-imposed  penalty  for 
the  wrong  which  he  had  done  the  banker's 
daughter  long  ago  in  the  dim  starlit  chamber 
at  Felden.  If  it  was  so,  he  did  penance  very 
cheerfully. 

"  Heaven  knows  how  gladly  I  would  do  her 
a  service,"  he  thought ;  "  her  life  has  been  a 
troubled  one,  in  spite  of  her  father's  thou- 
sands. Thauk  Heaven,  my  poor  little  Lucy 
has  never  been  forced  into  playing  the  hero- 
ine of  a  tragedy  like  this;  thank  Heaven,  my 
poor  little  darling's  life  flows  evenly  and  plac- 
idly in  a  smooth  channel."' 

He  could  not  but  reflect  with  something  of 
a  shudder  that  it  might  have  been  his  wife 
whose  history  was  being  canvassed  through- 
out the  West  Riding.  He  could  not  be  other- 
wise than  pleased  to  remember  that  the  name 
of  the  woman  he  had  chosen  had  never  gone 
beyond  tlie  holy  circle  of  her  own  home,  to  be 
the  common  talk  among  strangers. 

There  are  things  whicli  are  utterly  unendur- 
able to  some  people,  but  which  are  not  at  all 
terrible  in  the  eyes  of  others.  John  Mellish, 
secure  in  bis  own  belief  in  his  wife's  inno- 
cence, would  have  been  content  to  carry  her 
away  with  him,  after  razing  the  home  of  his 
forefathers  to  the  ground,  and  defying  all 
Y'orkshire  to  find  flaw  or  speck  upon  her  fair 
fame.    But  Talbot  Bulstrode  would  have  gone 


mad  with  the  agony  of  the  thought  that  com- 
mon tonn;ues  had  defiled  the  name  he  loved, 
and  would,  in  no  after  -  triumph  of  his  wife's 
innocence,  have  been  able  to  forget  or  to  re- 
cover from  the  torture  of  that  unendurable 
agony.  There  are  people  who  can  not  forget, 
and  Talbot  Bulstrode  was  one  of  them.  He 
had  never  forgotten  his  Christmas  agony  at 
Felden  Woods,  and  the  after-struggle  at  Bul- 
strode Castle ;  nor  did  he  ever  hope  to  forget 
it.  The  happiness  of  the  present,  pure  and 
unalloyed  though  it  was,  could  not  annihilate 
the  anguish  of  the  past.  That  stood  alone — 
so  many  months,  weeks,  days,  and  houi's  of 
unutterable  misery  riven  away  from  the  rest 
of  his  life,  to  remain  for  ever  a  stony  memorial 
upon  the  smooth  plains  of  the  past. 

Archibald  Martin  Floyd  sat  with  his  daugh- 
ter and  Lucy  in  Mrs.  Mellish's  morning-room, 
the  pleasantest  chamber  lor  many  reasons,  but 
chierty  because  it  was  removed  from  the  bustle 
of  the  house,  and  from  the  chance  of  unwel- 
come intrusion.  All  the  troubles  of  that 
household  had  been  made  light  of  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  old  man,  and  no  word  had  been 
dropped  before  him  which  could  give  him 
reason  to  guess  that  his  only  child  had  been 
suspected  of  the  most  fearful  crime  that  man 
or  woman  can  commit.  But  Archibald  Floyd 
was  not  easily  to  be  deceived  where  his  daugh- 
ter's happiness  was  in  question;  he  had  watch- 
ed that  beautiful  face,  whose  ever- varying 
expression  was  its  highest  charm,  so  long  and 
earnestly,  as  to  have  grown  familiar  with  its 
every  look.  No  shadow  upon  the  brightness 
of  his  daughter's  beauty  could  possibly  escape 
the  old  man's  eyes,  dim  as  they  may  have 
grown  for  the  figures  in  his  banking-book.  It 
was  Aurora's  business,  therefore,  to  sit  by  her 
father's  side  in  the  pleasant  morning-room,  to 
talk  to  him  and  amuse  him,  while  John  ram- 
bled hither  and  thither,  and  made  himself 
otherwise  tiresome  to  his  patient  companion, 
Talbot  Bulstrode.  Mrs.  Mellish  repeated  to 
her  father  again  and  again  that  there  was  no 
cause  for  uneasiness ;  they  were  merely  anx- 
ious— naturally  an.xious — that  the  guilty  man 
should  be  found  and  brought  to  justice  — 
nothing  more. 

The  banker  accepted  this  e.xplanation  of 
his  daughter's  pale  face  very  quietly ;  but  he 
was  not  the  less  anxious — anxious  he  scarcely 
knew  why,  but  with  the  shadow  of  a  dark 
cloud  hanging  over  him  that  was  not  to  be 
driven  away. 

Thus  the  long  August  day  wore  itself  out, 
and  the  low  sun  —  blazing  a  lurid  red  behind 
the  trees  in  Mellish  Wood,  until  it  made  that 
pool  beside  which  the  murdered  man  had  fall- 
en seem  a  pool  of  blood — gave  warning  that 
one  weary  day  of  watching  and  suspense  was 
nearly  done. 

John  Mellish,  far  too  restless  to  sit  long  at 
dessert,  had  roamed  out  upon  the  lawn,  still 
attended  by  his  indefatigable  keeper,  Talbot 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


193 


Bulstrode,  and  employed  himself  In  pacing 
up  and  down  the  smooth  ^rass  amid  Mr.  Daw- 
son's flower-beds,  looking  always  toward  the 
pathway  that  led  to  the  house,  and  breathing 
suppressed  anathemas  against  the  dilatory  de- 
tective. 

"  One  da^  nearly  gone,  thank  Heaven, 
Talbot !"  he  said,  with  an  impatient  sigh. 
"Will  to-morrow  brine  us  no  nearer  to  what 
we  want,  I  wonder  ?  What  it"  it  should  go  on 
like  this  for  long  ?  what  if  it  should  go  on 
for  ever,  until  Aurora  and  I  go  mad  with  this 
wretched  anxiety  and  suspense  V  Yes,  I 
know  you  think  me  a  fool  and  a  coward,  Tal- 
bot Bulstrode  ;  but  I  can't  bear  it  (pietly,  I 
tell  you  I  can't.  I  know  there  are  some  peo- 
ple who  can  shut  themselves  up  %vith  their 
troubles,  and  sit  down  quietly  and  suffer  with- 
out a  groan  ;  but  I  can't.  I  must  cry  out 
when  I  am  tortured,  or  I  should  dash  my 
brains  out  against  the  first  wall  I  came  to,  and 
make  an  end  of  it.  To  think  that  anybody 
should  susjiect  my  darling  !  to  think  that  they 
should  believe  her  to  be — " 

"  To  think  that  you  should  have  beHeved  it, 
John  !"  said  Mr.  Bulstrode,  gravely. 

•'  Ah !  there  's  the  crudest  stab  of  all," 
cried  John;  "if/ — I,  who  know  her,  and 
love  her,  and  believe  in  her  as  man  never 
yet  believed  in  woman — if  /  could  have  been 
bewildered  and  maddened  by  that  horrible 
chain  of  cruel  circumstances,  every  one  of 
which  pointed — Heaven  help  me  ! — at  her — if 
/could  be  deluded  by  these  things  until  my 
brain  reeled,  and  I  went  nearly  mad  with 
doubting  my  own  dearest  love,  what  may 
strangers  think — strangers  who  neither  know 
nor  love  her,  but  who  are  only  too  ready  to 
believe  anything  unnaturally  infamous  ?  Tal- 
bot I  won't  endure  this  any  longer.  I  'll  ride 
into  Doncaster  and  see  this  man  Grimstone. 
He  must  have  done  some  good  to-day.  I  '11 
go  at  once." 

Mr.  Mellish  would  have  walked  straight  off 
to  the  stables;  but  Talbot  Bulstrode  caught 
him  h}'  the  arm. 

"  You  may  miss  the  man  on  the  road,  John," 
he  said.  "  He  came  last  night  after  dark,  and 
may  come  as  late  to-night.  There  's  no  know- 
ing whether  he  '11  come  by  the  road,  or  the 
short  cut  across  the  fields.  You  're  as  likely 
to  miss  him  as  not." 

Mr.  Mellish  hesitated. 

"  He  may  n't  come  at  all  to-night,"  he  said; 
"  and  I  tell  y^  I  can't  bear  this  suspense." 

"  Let  me  ride  into  Doncaster,  then,  John," 
urged  Talbot,  "  and  j'ou  stay  here  to  receive 
Grimstoni!  if  he  should  come." 

Mr.  Mellish  was  considerably  mollified  by 
this  proposition. 

"  Will  you  ride  into  the  town,  Talbot?"  he 
said.  "  Upon  my  word,  it  's  very  kind  of  you 
to  propose  it.  1  should  n't  like  to  miss  this 
man  upon  any  account;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
I  don't  feel  inclined  to  wait  for  the  chance  of 
\i 


his  coming  or  staying  ^way.  I  'm  afraid  I  'ra 
a  great  nuisance  to  you,  Bulstrode." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"' answered  Talbot,  with  a 
smile. 

_  Perhaps  he  smiled  involuntarily  at  the  no- 
tion of  how  little  John  Mellish  knew  what  a 
nuisance  he  had  been  through  that  weary 
day. 

"  I  '11  go  with  very  great  pleasure,  John," 
he  said,  "  if  you  'U  tell  them  to  saddle  a  horse 
for  me." 

"  To  be  sure  ;  you  shall  have  Red  Rover, 
my  covert  hack.  We  '11  go  round  to  the 
stables,  and  see  about  him  at  once." 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  Talbot  Bulstrode 
was  very  well  pleased  to  hunt  up  the  detective 
himself,  rather  than  that  John  Mellish  should 
execute  that  errand  in  p'ferson;  for  it  would 
have  been  about  as  easy  for  the  young  squire 
to  have  translated  a  number  of  "the  Sporting 
Ma(jnzine  into  Porsonian  Greek,  as  to  have 
kept  a  secret  for  half  an  hour,  however  ear- 
nestly entreated,  or  however  conscientiously 
determined  to  do  so. 

Mr.  Bulstrode  had  made  it  his  particular 
business,  therefore,  during  the  whole  of  that 
day,  to  keep  his  frien<l  as  much  as  possible  out 
of  the  way  of  every  living  creature,  fullv 
aware  that  Mr.  Mellish's  manner  would  most 
certainly  beti-ay  him  to  tiie  least  observant 
eyes  that  might  chance  to  fall  upon  him. 

Red  Rover  was  saddled,  and,  after  twentv 
loudly-whispered  injunctions  from  John.  Tal- 
bot Bulstrode  rode  away  in  the  evening  sun- 
light. The  nearest  way  from  the  stables  to 
the  high-road  took  him  past  the  north  lodije. 
It  had  been  shut  up  since  the  day  of  the 
trainer's  funeral,  such  lurniture  as  it  contain- 
ed left  to  become  a  prey  to  moths  and  rats; 
tor  the  Mellish  servants  were  a  great  deal  too 
superstitiously  impressed  with  the  story  of  the 
murder  to  dream  of  readmitting  those  goods 
and  chattels  which  had  been  selected  for  Mr. 
Conyers'  accommodation  to  the  garrets  whence 
they  had  been  taken.  The  door  had  been 
locked,  therefore,  and  the  key  given  to  Daw- 
son, the  gardener,  who  was  to  be  once  more 
free  to  use  the  place  as  a  storehouse  for  roots 
and  matting,  superannuated  cucumber-frames 
and  crippled  garden-tools. 

The  place  looked  dreary  enough,  thouixh 
the  low  sun  made  a  gorgeous  illumination  ujion 
one  of  the  latticed  windows  that  faced  the 
crimson  west,  and  though  the  last  leaves  of  the 
roses  were  still  lying  upon  the  long  grass  in 
the  patch  of  garden  before  the  door,  out  of 
which  Mr.  Conyers  had  gone  to  his  last  rest- 
ing-place. One  of  the  stable-boys  had  accom- 
panied Mr.  Bul.strode  to  the  lodge  in  order  to 
open  the  rusty  iron  gates,  which  hung  loosely 
on  their  hinges,  and  were  never  locked. 

Talbot  rode  at  a  brisk  pace  into  Doncaster, 
never  drawing  rein  until  he  reached  the  little 
inn  at  which  the  detective  had  taken  up  his 
quarters.     Mr.  Grimstone  had  been  anatchinT 


194 


AtJRORA  FLOYD. 


a  tasty  refresliment,  jifter  a  weary  and  use- 
less perambulation  about  the  town,  and  came 
out  with  his  mouth  full  to  speak  to  Mr.  Bul- 
strode.  But  he  took  very  good  care  not  to 
confet^s  that  since  three  o'clock  that  day  nei- 
ther he  nor  his  ally  had  seen  or  heard  of  Mr. 
Stephen  Hargraves,  or  that  he  was  actually 
no  nearer  the  discovery  of  the  murderer  than 
he  had  been  at  eleven  o'clock  upon  the  pre- 
vious night,  when  he  had  discovered  the  orig- 
inal proprietor  of  the  fancy  waistcoat,  with 
buttons  by  Crosby,  Birmingham,  in  the  per- 
son of  Dawson,  the  gardener. 

"  I  'm  not  losing  any  time,  sir,"  he  said,  in 
answer  to  Talbot's  inquiries;  "my  sort  of 
work  's  quiet  work,  and  don't  make  no  show 
till  it  's  done.  I  've  reason  to  think  the  man 
we  want  is  in  Doncaster ;  so  I  stick  in  Don- 
caster,  and  mean  to,  till  I  lay  my  hand  upon 
him — unless  I  should  get  information  as  would 
point  farther  off.  Tell  Mr.  Mellish  I  'm  doing 
my  duty,  sir,  and  doing  it  conscientious  ;  and 
that  I  shall  neither  eat,  nor  drink,  nor  sleep 
more  than  just  as  much  as  '11  keep  human  nat- 
ure together,  until  I  've  done  what  I  've  set 
my  mind  on  doing." 

"  But  you  've  discovered  nothing  fresh, 
then  ?"  said  Talbot ;  "  you  've  nothing  new  to 
tell  me  ?" 

•'  Whatever  I  've  discovered  is  neither  here 
nor  there  yet  a  while,  sir,"  answered  the  de- 
tective, vaguely.  "  You  keep  your  heart  up, 
and  tell  Mr.  Mellish  to  keep  his  heart  up,  and 
trust  in  me." 

Talbot  Bulstrode  was  obliged  to  be  content 
with  this  rather  doubtful  comfort.  It  was  not 
)nuch,  certainly,  but  he  determined  to  make 
the  best  of  it  to  John  Mellish. 

He  rode  out  of  Doncaster,  past  the  "  Rein- 
deer" and  the  white- fronted  houses  of  the 
wealthier  citizens  of  that  prosperous  borough, 
and  away  upon  the  smooth  high-road.  The 
faint  shimmer  of  the  pale  early  moonlight  lit 
up  the  tree-tops  to  right  and  left  of  him  as  he 
left  the  suburb  behind,  and  made  the  road 
ghostly  beneath  his  horse's  feet.  He  was  in 
no  very  hopeful  humor,  after  his  interview 
with  Mr.  Grimstone,  and  he  knew  that  hun- 
gry-eyed members  of  the  Doncaster  constabu- 
lary were  keeping  stealthy  watch  upon  every 
creature  in  the  Mellish  household,  and  that 
the  slanderous  tongues  of  a  greedy  public 
were  swelling  into  a  loud  and  ominous  mur- 
mur against  the  wife  John  loved.  Every 
hour,  every  moment,  was  of  vital  importance. 
A  hundred  perils  menaced  them  on  every 
side.  What  might  they  not  have  to  dread 
from  eager  busybodies,  anxious  to  distinguish 
themselves,  and  proud  of  being  the  first  to 
circulate  a  foul  scandal  against  the  lovely 
daughter  of  one  of  the  richest  men  upon  the 
Stock  Exchange  ?  Hayward,  the  coroner, 
and  Lofthouse,  the  rector,  both  knew  the  se- 
cret of  Aurora's  life  ;  and  it  would  be  little 
wonder  if,  looking  at  the  trainer's  death  by 


I  the  light'  of  that  knowledge,  they  believed 
j  her  guilty  of  some  share  in  the  ghastly  busi- 
I  ness  which  had  terminated  the  trainer's  ser- 
i  vice  at  Mellish  Park. 

I  What  if,  by  some  horrible  fatality,  the  guilty 
[  man  should  escape,  and  the  truth  never  be 
revealed.  For  ever  and  for  ever,  until  her 
blighted  name  should  be  written  upon  a  tomb- 
[  stone,  Aurora  Mellish  must  rest  under  the 
shadow  of  this  suspicion.  Could  there  be  any 
doubt  that  the  sensitive  and  highly-strung 
nature  would  give  way  under  the  unendura- 
ble burden  ?  that  the  proud  heart  would  break 
beneath  the  undeserved  disgrace  ?  What 
misery  for  her  !  and  not  for  her  alone,  but  for 
every  one  who  loved  her,  or  had  any  share  in 
her  history.  Pleaven  pardon  the  selfishness 
that  pi'ompted  the  thought,  if  Talbot  Bul- 
strode remembered  that  he  would  have  some 
part  in  that  bitter  disgrace;  that  his  name, 
was  allied,  if  only  remotely,  with  that  of  his 
wife's  cousin;  and  that  the  shame  which 
would  make  the  name  of  Mellish  a  by-word 
must  also  cast  some  slur  upon  the  escutcheon 
of  the  Bulstrodes.  Sir  Bernard  Burke,  com- 
piling the  romance  of  the  county  families, 
would  tell  that  cruel  story,  and,  hinting  cau- 
tiously at  Aurora's  guilt,  would  scarcely  fail 
to  add,  that  the  suspected  lady's  cousin  had 
married  Talbot  Raleigh  Bulstrode,  Esq.,  el- 
dest son  and  heir  of  Sir  John  Walter  Raleigh 
Bulstrode.  Baronet,  of  Bulstrode  Castle,  Corn- 
wall. 

Now,  although  the  detective  had  affected 
a  hopeful  and  even  mysterious  manner  in  his 
brief  interview  with  Talbot,  he  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  hoodwinking  that  gentleman,  who 
bad  a  vague  suspicion  that  all  was  not  quite 
right,  and  that  Mr.  Joseph  Grimstone  was  by 
no  means  so  certain  of  success  as  he  pretend- 
ed to  be. 

"  It  's  my  firm  belief  that  this  man  Har- 
graves has  given  him  the  slip,"  Talbot  thought. 
"  He  said  something  about  believing  him  to  be 
in  Doncaster,  and  then  the  next  moment  add- 
ed that  he  might  be  farther  off.  It  's  clear, 
therefore,  that  Grimstone  does  n't  know  where 
he  is ;  and  in  that  case,  it  's  as  likely  as  not 
that  the  man  's  made  off  with  his  money,  and 
will  get  away  from  England  in  spite  of  us. 
If  he  does  this  —  " 

Mr.  Bulstrode  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 
He  had  reached  the  north  lodge,  and  dis- 
mounted to  open  the  iron  gate.  The  lights 
of  the  house  shone  hospitably  far  away  be- 
yond the  wood,  and  the  voices  of  some  men 
about  the  stable-gates  sounded  faintly  in  the 
distance ;  but  the  north  lodge  and  the  neg- 
lected shrubbery  around  it  were  as  silent  as 
the  grave,  and  had  a  certain  phantom-like  air 
in  the  dim  moonlight. 

Talbot  led  his  horse  through  the  gates.  He 
looked  up  at  the  windows  of  the  lodge  as  he 
passed,  half  involuntarily ;  but  he  stopped 
with  a  suppressed  exclamation  of  surprise  at 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


195 


the  sight  of  a  feeble  glimmer,  which  was  not 
the  moonlight,  in  the  window  of  that  upper 
chamber  in  which  the  murdered  man  had 
slept.  Before  that  exclamation  had  welluigh 
crossed  his  lips  the  light  had  disappeared. 

If  any  one  of  the  Mellish  grooms  or  stable- 
boys  had  beheld  that  brief  apparition,  he 
would  have  incontinently  taken  to  his  heels, 
and  rushed  breatiiless  to  the  stables,  with  a 
wild  story  of  some  supernatural  horror  in  the 
north  lodge ;  but  Mr.  Bulstrode,  being  alto- 
gether of  another  mettle,  walked  softly  on, 
siill  leading  his  horse,  until  he  was  well  out 
of  earshot  of  any  one  within  the  lodge,  when 
he  stopped  and  tied  the  Red  Rover's  bridle  to 
a  tree,  and  turned  back  toward  the  north 
gates,  leaving  the  corn-fed  covert  hack  crop- 
ping greedily  at  dewy  hazel-twigs,  and  any 
green  meat  within  his  reach. 

The  heir  of  Sir  John  Walter  Raleigh  Bul- 
strode crept  back  to  the  lodge  almost  as  noise- 
lessly as  if  ho  had  been  educated  for  Mr. 
Grimstone's  profession,  choosing  the  grassy 
pathway  beneath  the  trees  for  his  cautious 
ibotstej)*.  As  he  approached  the  wooden 
paling  that  shut  in  the  little  garden  of  the 
lodire,  the  light  which  had  been  so  suddenly 
e.\tinguished  reappeared  behind  the  white 
curtain  of  the  upper  window. 

•'  It  's  queer  !"  mused  Mr.  Bulstrode,  as  he 
watched  the  feeble  glimmer  ;  "  but  I  dare  say 
there  s  nothing  in  it.  The  associations  of 
this  place  are  strong  enough  to  make  one 
attach  a  tbolish  importance  to  anything  con- 
nccteil  with  it.  I  think  I  heard  John  say  the 
gardeners  keep  their  tools  there,  and  I  sup- 
pose it  's  one  of  them.  But  it  's  late,  too,  for 
any  of  them  to  be  at  work." 

It  had  struck  ten  while  Mr.  Bulstrode  rode 
homeward,  and  it  was  more  than  unlikely  that 
any  of  the  Mellish  servants  would  be  out  at 
such  a  time. 

Talbot  lingered  by  the  wicket-gate,  irreso- 
lute as  to  what  he  should  do  ne.\t,  but  thor- 
oughly determined  to  see  the  last  of  this  late 
visitor  at  the  north  lodge,  when  the  shadow 
of  a  man  flitted  across  the  white  curtain  —  a 
shadow  even  more  weird  and  ungainly  than 
such  things  are  —  the  shadow  of  a  man  with 
a  humpback ! 

Talbot  Bulstrode  uttered  no  cry  of  surprise ; 
but  his  heart  knocked  furiously  against  his 
ribs,  and  the  blood  rushed  hotly  to  his  face. 
He  never  remembered  having  seen  the  softy, 
but  he  had  always  heard  him  described  as 
a  humpbacked  man.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  of  the  shadow's  identity  ;  there  could 
be  still  less  doubt  that  Stephen  Ilargraves 
had  visited  that  place  for  no  good  purpose. 
What  could  bring  him  there  —  to  that  i)lace 
above  all  other  places,  which,  if  he  were  in- 
deed guilty,  he  would  surely  most  desire  to 
avoid  y  Stolid,  semi-idiotic  as  he  was  sup- 
posed to  be,  surely  the  common  terrors  of  the 
lowest  assassin,  half  brute,  half  Caliban,  would 


keep  him  away  from  that  spot.  These  thoughts 
did  not  occupy  more  than  those  few  moments 
in  which  the  violent  beating  of  Talbot  Bul- 
strode's  heart  held  him  powerless  to  move  or 
act ',  then,  pushing  open  the  gate,  he  rushed 
across  the  tiny  garden,  trampling  recklessly 
upon  the  neglected  flower-beds,  and  softly 
tried  the  door.  It  was  firmly  secured  with  a 
heavy  chain  and  padlock. 

"  Ho  has  got  in  at  the  window,  then." 
thought  Mr.  Bulstrode.  "What,  in  Heaven's 
name,  could  be  his  motive  in  coming  here  ?" 

Talbot  was  right.  The  little  lattice-win- 
dow had  been  wrenched  nearly  off  its  hinges, 
and  hung  loosely  among  the  tangled  foliage 
that  surrounded  it.  Mr.  Bulstrode  did  not 
hesitate  a  moment  before  he  plunged  head 
foremost  into  the  narrow  aperture  through 
which  the  softy  must  have  found  his  way,  and 
scrambled  as  he  could  into  the  littie  room. 
The  lattice,  strained  still  farther,  dropped, 
with  a  crashing  noise,  behind  him  ;  but  not 
soon  enough  to  serve  as  a  warning  for  Stephen 
Hargraves,  who  appeared  upon  the  lowest 
step  of  the  tiny  corkscrew  staircase  at  the 
same  moment.  He  was  carrying  a  tallow  can- 
dle in  a  battered  tin  candlestick  in  his  right 
hand,  and  he  had  a  small  bundle  under  his 
left  arm.  His  white  face  was  no  whiter  than 
usual,  but  he  presented  an  awfully  corpse- 
like appearance  to  Mr.  Bulstrode,  who  ha'l 
never  seen  him  or  noticed  him  before.  The 
softy  rcLoiled,  with  a  gesture  of  intense  ter- 
ror, as  he  saw  Talbot;  and  a  bo.x  of  lucifer- 
mat(,'hes,  which  he  had  been  carrying  in  the 
candlestick,  rolled  to  the  ground. 

•'What  are  you  doing  here'?"  asked  ^Ir. 
Bulstrode,  sternly;  "and  why  did  you  come 
in  at  the  window  ?" 

"I  warn't  doin'  no  wrong,"  the  softy  whined, 
piteousiy;  "and  it  a'n't  your  business  neither," 
he  added,  with  a  feeble  attempt  at  insolence. 

"  It  is  my  business.  I  am  Mr.  Mellish's 
friemj  and  relation  ;  and  I  have  reason  to  sus- 
piict  that  you  are  hero  for  no  good  purpose," 
answereil  Talbot.  "  I  insist  upon  knowing 
what  you  came  lor." 

"  I  have  n't  come  to  steal  owght,  anyhow," 
said  Mr.  Hargraves ;  "  there  's  nothing  here 
but  chairs  ami  tables,  and  't  a'n't  loikely  I  've 
come  arter  them." 

••  Perhaps  not ;  but  you  have  come  after 
something,  and  I  insist  upon  knowing  what  it 
is.  You  would  n't  come  to  this  place  unless 
you  'd  a  very  strong  reason  for  coming.  What 
have  you  got  there  i" 

Mr.  Bulstrode  pointed  to  the  Ijundle  carried 
by  the  softy.  Stephen  Hargraves'  small,  red- 
brown  eyes  evaded  those  of  his  questioner, 
and  made  believe  to  mistake  the  direction  in 
which  Talbot  looked. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?"  repeated  JSIr. 
Bulstrode ;  "  you  know  well  enough  what  I 
mean.  What  have  you  got  there,  in  that  bun- 
dle under  vour  arm  V" 


106 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


The  softy  clutched  convulsively  at  the  dingy 
bundle,  and  glared  at  his  questioner  vviti) 
something  of  t!ie  savage  terror  of  some  u^^ly 
animal  at  bay,  except  tliat  in  his  brutalized 
manhood  he  was  more  awkward,  and  perhaps 
more  repulsive,  than  the  ugliest  of  lower  ani- 
mals. 

"  It  's  nowght  to  you,  nor  to  anybody  else," 
he  muttered  sulkily.  '•  I  suppose  a  poor  chap 
may  fetch  his  few  bits  of  clothes  without  bein' 
callerJ  like  this  ?" 

"  What  clothes  ?     Let  me  see  the  clothes." 

"No,  I  won't;  they  're'  nowght  to  you. 
They  —  it  's  only  an  old  weskit  as  was  give 
nie  by  one  o'  th'  lads  in  th'  steables." 

"A  waistcoat!"  cried  Mr.  Bulstrode  ;  "let 
me  see  it  this  instant.  A  waistcoat  of  yours 
has  been  particularly  inquli-ed  lor,  Mr.  Har- 
graves.  It  's  a  chocolate  waistcoat,  with  yel- 
low stripes  and  brass  buttons,  unless  I  'm  very 
much  mistaken.     Let  me  see  it." 

Talbot  Bulstrode  was  almost  breathless  with 
excitement.  The  softy  stared  aghast  at  the 
description  of  his  waistcoat,  but  he  Avas  too 
stup-d  to  comproliend  instantaneously  the  rea- 
son for  which  this  garment  was  wanted.  He 
recoiled  for  a  few  paces,  and  then  made  a  rush 
toward  the  window  ;  but  Talbot's  hands  closed 
upon  his  collar,  and  held  him  as  if  in  a  vice. 

"  You  'd  better  not  trifle  with  me,"  cried 
Mr.  Bulstrode;  "I  've  been  accustomed  to 
deal  with  refractory  Sepoys  in  India,  and  I 
've  had  a  struggle  with  a  tiger  before  now. 
Show  me  that  waistcoat." 

"I  won't." 

"  By  the  Heaven  above  us,  von  shall." 

"I  won't!" 

The  two  men  closed  with  each  other  in  a 
hand-to-hand  struggle.  Powerful  as  the  sol- 
dier was,  he  found  himself  more  than  matched 
by  Stephen  Hargraves,  whose  thick-set  frame, 
broad  shoulders,  and  sinewy  arms  were  al- 
most lierculean  in  tlieir  build.  The  struggle 
lasted  for  a  considerable  time  —  or  for  a  time 
that  seemed  considerable  to  both  of  the  com- 
batants ;  but  at  last  it  drew  toward  its  termi- 
nation, and  the  heir  of  all  tiie  Bulstrodes,  the 
commander  of  squadrons  of  horse,  the  man 
who  had  done  battle  with  the  blood-thirsty 
Sikhs,  and  ridden  against  the  black  mouths 
of  Russian  cannon  at  Balaklava,  felt  that  he 
could  scarcely  hope  to  hold  out  mucii  longvr 
against  the  half-witted  hanger-on  of  the  Mel- 
lish  stables.  The  horny  fingers  of  the  softy 
Avere  upon  his  throat,  the  long  arms  of  the 
softy  were  writhing  round  him,  and  in  an- 
other moment  Talbot  Bulstrode  lay  upon  the 
floor  of  the  north  lodge,  wnth  the  softy's  knee 
planted  upon  his  heaving  chest. 

Another  moment,  and  in  the  dim  moonlight 

—  the  candle  had  been  thrown  down  and 
ti'ampled  upon  in  the  beginning  of  the  scuffle 

—  the  heir  of  Bulstrode  Castle  saw  vStephen 
Hargraves  fumbling  with  his  disengaged  hand 
in  his  breast-pocket. 


One  moment  more,  and  Mr.  Bulstrode  heard 
that  sharp  metallic  noise  only  associated  with 
the  opening  of  a  clasp-knife. 

"  E'es,"  hissed  the  softy,  with  his  hot  breath 
close  upon  the  fallen  man's  cheek,  "you 
wanted  t'  see  th'  weskit,  did  you  ?  but  you 
shan't,  for  I  '11  sarve  you  as  I  sarved  him. 
'T  a'n't  loikely  I  '11  let  you  stand  between  me 
and  two  thousand  pound." 

Talbot  Raleigh  Bulstrode  had  a  faint  no- 
tion that  a  broad  ShelHcld  blade  flashed  in 
the  silvery  moonlight;  but  at  this  moment  his 
senses  grew  confused  under  the  iron  grip  of 
the  softy's  hand,  and  he  knew  little,  except 
that  there  was  a  sudden  crashing  of  glass  be- 
hind him,  a  quick  trampling  of  feet,  and  a 
strange  voice  roaring  some  seafaring  oath 
above  his  head.  Tlie  suflbcating  pressure 
was  suddenly  removed  from  his  throat;  some 
one  or  something  was  hurled  into  a  corner  of 
the  little  room  ;  and  Mr.  Bulstrode  sprang  to 
his  feet,  a  trifle  dazed  and  bewildered,  but 
quite  ready  to  do  battle  again. 

"  Who  is  it  ■?"  he  cried. 

"  It  's  me,  Samuel  Prodder!"  answered  the 
voice  that  had  uttered  that  dreadful  seafaring 
oath.  "  You  were  pretty  nigh  done  for,  mate, 
when  I  came  aboard.  It  a'n't  the  first  time 
I  've  been  up  here  after  dark,  takin'  a  quiet 
stroll  and  a  pipe,  before  turning  in  over  yon- 
der"—  Mr.  Pro(hler  indicated  Doncaster  by 
a  backward  jerk  of  his  thumb.  "I  'd  been 
watchin'  the  light  from  a  distance,  till  it  went 
out  suddenly  five  minutes  ago,  and  then  I 
came  up  close  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  I 
don't  know  who  you  are,  or  what  you  are,  or 
why  you  've  been  quarrelling ;  but  I  know 
you  've  been  pretty  near  as  nigh  your  death 
to-night  as  ever  that  chap  was  in  the  wood." 

"The  waistcoat!"  gasped  Mr.  Bulstrode; 
"  let  me  see  the  waistcoat !" 

He  sprang  once  more  upon  the  softy,  who 
had  rushed  toward  the  door,  and  was  trying 
to  beat  out  the  panel  with  his  iron-bound-clog; 
but  this  time  Mr.  Bulstrode  had  a  stalwart 
ally  in  the  merchant-captain. 

"A  bit  of  rope  comes  uncommon  handy  in 
these  cases,"  said  Samuel  Prodder,  "for  which 
reason  I  always  make  a  point  of  carrying  it 
somewhere  about  me." 

He  plunged  up  to  his  elbow  in  one  of  the 
capacious  pockets  of  his  tourist  peg-tops,  and 
produced  a  short  coil  of  tarry  rope.  As  he 
might  have  lashed  a  seaman  to  a  mast  in  the 
last  crisis  of  a  wreck,  so  he  lashed  Mr.  Stephen 
Hargraves  now,  binding  him  right  and  left, 
until  the  struggling  arms  and  legs,  and  writh- 
ing trunk,  were  fain  to  be  still. 

''■Now,  if  you  want  to  ask  him  any  ques-? 
tions,  I  make  no  doubt  he  '11  answer  'em,"  said 
Mr.  Prodder,  politely.  "  You  'II  find  him  a 
deal  quieter  after  that." 

"I  can't  thank  you  now,"  Talbot  answered, 
hurriedly ;  "  there  '11  be  time  enough  for  that 
by  and  by." 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


197 


"Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure,  mate,"  growled  the 
captain ;  "  no  thanks  is  needed  where  no 
thanks  is  due.  Is  there  anything  else  I  can 
do  for  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  good  deal  presently ;  but  I  must 
find  this  waistcoat  first.  Where  did  he  put  it, 
I  wonder?  Stay,  I  'd  better  try  and  get  a 
light.  Keep  your  eye  upon  that  man  while  I 
look  for  it." 

Captain  Prodder  only  nodded.  He  looked 
upon  his  scientific  lashing  of  the  softy  as  the 
triumph  of  art;  but  he  hovered  near  his  pris- 
oner in  compliance  witli  Talbot's  request, 
ready  to  fall  upon  him  if  he  should  make  any 
attempt,  to  stir. 

There  was  enough  moonlight  to  enable  Mr. 
Bnlstrode  to  find  tlie  lucifers  and  candlestick 
after  a  few  minutes  search.  The  candle  was 
not  improved  by  having  been  trodden  upon  ; 
but  Talbot  contrived  to  light  it.  and  then  set 
to  work  to  look  for  the  waistcoat. 

The  bundle  had  rolled  into  a  corner.  It 
was  tightly  bound  with  a  quantity  of  whip- 
coi"(l,  and  was  harder  than  it  could  have  been 
had  it  consisted  solely  of  the  waistcoat. 

"  Hold  the  light  for  me  while  I  undo  this," 
Talliot  ci'ied,  thrusting  the  candlestick  into 
Mr.  Prodder's  hand.  He  was  so  impatient 
that  he  could  scarcely  wait  wliile  he  cut  the 
whip-cord  about  the  bundle  with  the  softy's 
huge  clasp -knite,  which  he  had  picked  up 
while  searching  for  the  candle. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said,  as  he  unrolled  the 
waistcoat ;  "  the  money  's  here."' 

The  money  was  there,  in  a  small  Russia- 
leather  pocket-book,  in  which  Aurora  had 
given  it  to  the  murdered  man.  If  there  had 
been  any  confirmation  needed  for  this  fact, 
the  savage  yell  of  rnge  which  broke  from 
Stephen  s  lips  would  have  afforded  that  con- 
firm;ition. 

"  It  's  the  money,"  cried  Talbot  B^ilstrode. 
"  1  call  upon  you,  sir,  to  bear  witness,  who- 
ever you  may  be,  that  I  find  this  waistcoat 
and  this  pocket-book  in  the  possession  of  this 
man,  and  that  I  take  them  from  him  after  a 
struggle,  in  which  he  attempts  my  life." 

"Ay,  ay,  I  know  him  well  enough,"  mutter- 
ed the  sailor;  "  he  's  a  bad  'un  ;  and  him  and 
me  have  had  a  stand  further,  before  this." 

"And  I  call  upon  you  to  bear  witness  that 
this  man  is  the  murderer  of  James  Conyers  !" 

•' \Vn.\T?"  roared  Samuel  Prodder;  "him! 
AVhy,  the  double-dyed  villain,  it  was  him  that 
put  it  into  my  head  that  it  was  my  sister  Eliza's 
chi — that  it  was  Mrs.  Melllsh — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  knov/.  But  we  've  got  him 
now.  Will  you  run  to  the  house,  and  send 
some  of  the  men  to  fetch  a  constable,  while  I 
stop  here  V" 

Mr.  Prodder  assented  willingly.  He  had 
assisted  Talbot  in  the  first  instance  without 
any  idea  of  what  the  business  was  to  lead  to. 
Now  he  was  quite  as  much  excited  as  Mr. 
Bulstrode.     He  scrambled  through  the  lattice, 


and  ran  off  to  the  stables,  guided  by  the  light- 
ed windows  of  the  grooms'  dormitories. 

Talbot  waited  very  quietly  while  he  was 
gone.  He  stood  at  a  few  paces  from  the  softy, 
watching  i\Ir.  Hargraves  as  he  gnawed  sav- 
agely at  his  bonds,  in  the  hope,  perhaps,  of 
setting  himself  free. 

"  1  shall  be  ready  for  you,"  the  young  Cor- 
nishman  said,  quietly,  "  whenever  you  're 
ready  for  me." 

A  crowd  of  grooms  and  hangers-on  came 
with  lanterns  before  the  constable  could  ar- 
rive ;  and  foremost  among  them  came  INIr. 
John  Mellisli,  very  noisy  and  very  unintelligi- 
ble. The  door  ol  the  lodge  was  opened,  and 
they  all  burst  into  the  little  chamber,  where, 
heedless  of  grooms,  gardeners,  stable-boys, 
hangers-on,  and  rabble,  John  IMellish  fell  on 
his  friend's  breast  and  wept  aloud. 


L' Envoi. 

What  more  have  I  to  tell  of  this  simple 
drama  of  domestic  life?  The  end  has  come. 
The  element  ol"  tragedy  which  has  been  so  in- 
termingled in  the  history  of  a  homely  York- 
shire scjuire  and  his  wife  is  hencelbrth  to  be 
banished  from  the  record  of  their  lives.  The 
dark  story  which  began  in  Aurora  Floyd's 
folly,  and  culminated  in  the  crime  of  a  half- 
witted serving -man,  has  been  told  from  tho 
beginnina  to  the  end.  It  would  be  worse 
than  useless  to  linger  upon  the  description  of  a 
trial  which  took  place  at  York  at  the  Michael- 
mas Assizes.  The  evidence  against  Stephen 
Hargraves  was  conclusive;  and  the  gallows 
outside  York  Castle  ended  the  life  of  a  man 
who  had  never  been  either  help  or  comfort  to 
any  one  of  his  fellow  -  creatures.  Tiiere  was 
an  attempt  made  to  set  up  a  plea  of  irrespon- 
sibility upon  the  part  ot  the  softy,  and  the 
sobriquet  which  had  been  given  him  was  urged 
in  his  defence;  but  a  set  of  matter-of-fact 
jurymen,  looking  at  the  circumstances  of  the 
murder,  saw  nothing  in  it  but  a  most  cold- 
blooded assassination,  j)erpetrated  by  a  wretch 
whose  sole  motive  was  gain;  and  the  verdict 
which  found  Stephen  Hargraves  guilty  was 
tempered  by  no  recomnu'udation  to  mercy. 
The  condemned  murderer  protested  his  inno- 
cence up  to  the  night  before  his  execution, 
and  upon  that  night  made  a  full  contession  of 
his  crime,  as  is  generally  the  custom  of  his 
kind.  He  related  how  he  had  followed  James 
Conyers  into  tiie  wood  upon  the  night  of  his 
assignation  with  Aurora,  and  how  he  had 
watched  and  listened  during  the  interview. 
He  had  shot  the  trainer  in  the  back  while  Mr. 
Conyers  sat  by  the  water's-edge  looking  over 
the  notes  in  the  j)ocket-book,  and  he  had  used 
a  button  oil"  his  waistcoat  instead  of  wadding, 
not  finding  anything  else  suitable  for  the  pur- 
pose. He  had  liidflen  the  waistcoat  and  pock- 
et-book in  a  rat-hole  in  the  wainscot  of  the 


198 


AURORA  FLOYD. 


murdered  man's  chamber,  and,  being  dismissed 
from  the  lodge  suddenly,  had  been  compelled 
to  leave  his  booty  behind  him  ratlier  than  ex- 
cite suspicion.  It  was  thus  that  he  had  re- 
turned upon  the  night  on  which  Talbot  found 
him,  meaning  to  secure  his  prize  and  start  for 
Liverpool  at  six  o'clock  the  following  morning. 

Aurora  and  her  husband  left  Mellish  Park 
immediately  after  the  committal  of  the  softy 
to  York  prison.  They  went  to  the  south  of 
France,  accompanied  by  Archibald  Floyd, 
and  once  more  travelled  together  through 
scenes  which  were  overshadowed  by  no  sor- 
rowful association.  They  lingered  long  at 
Nice;  and  here  Talbot  and  Lu<y  joined  them, 
with  an  impedimental  train  of  luggage  and 
servants,  and  a  Normandy  nurse  with  a  blue- 
eyed  girl-baby.  It  was  at  Nice  that  another 
baby  was  born,  a  black-eyed  child  —  a  boy,  I 
believe  —  but  wonderfully  like  that  solemn- 
faced  infant  which  Mrs.  Alexander  Floyd 
carried  to  the  widowed  banker  two-and-twen- 
ty  years  before  at  Felden  Woods. 

It  is  almost  supererogatory  to  say  that  Sam- 
uel Prodder,  the  sea-captain,  was  cordially 
received  by  hearty  John  Mellish  and  his  wife. 


He  is  to  be  a  welcome  visitor  at  the  Park 
whenever  he  pleases  to  come ;  indeed,  he 
is  homeward  bound  from  Barbadoes  at  this 
very  time,  his  cabin-presses  filled  to  overflow- 
ing with  presents  which  he  is  carrying  to  Au- 
rora, in  the  way  of  chilis  preserved  in  vinegar, 
guava  jelly,  the  strongest  Jamaica  rum,  and 
other  trifles  suitable  for  a  lady's  acceptance. 
It  may  be  some  comfort  to  the  gentlemen  in 
Scotland  Yard  to  know  that  John  Mellish 
acted  liberally  to  the  detective,  and  gave  him, 
the  full  reward,  although  Talbot  Bulstrode 
had  been  the  captor  of  the  softy. 

So  we  leave  Aurora,  a  little  changed,  a 
shade  less  defiantly  bright,  perhaps,  but  un- 
speakably beautiful  and  tender,  bending  over 
the  cradle  of  her  first-born;  and  though  there 
are  alterations  being  made  at  Mellish,  and 
loose  Vjoxes  for  broodmares  building  upon  the 
site  of  the  north  lodge,  and  a  subscription  tan- 
gallop  being  laid  across  Harper's  Common,  I 
doubt  if  my  heroine  will  care  so  much  for 
horseflesh,  or  take  quite  so  keen  an  interest 
in  weight-for-age  races  as  compared  to  hanili- 
caps,  as  she  has  done  in  the  days  that  are 
coue. 


THB    END. 


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